A Test of Power
by DR
Summary: Mutants across the globe are drawn into a power struggle between Apocalypse and Mr. Sinister
1. Default Chapter

A TEST OF POWER

**BY DR**

Prologue

The supreme, the merciless, the destroyer of opposition,  
the exalted King, the shepherd, the protector of the quarters  
of the world, the King the word of whose mouth destroys  
mountains and seas, who by his lordly attack has forced  
mighty and merciless Kings from the rising of the Sun to  
the setting of the same to acknowledge one supremacy.  


**Ashurnasirpal**

  
Two years from now 

He walked the brightly illuminated corridor, methodical in his pursuit to observe and catalog the many strange machines, which seemed to cover every inch of the floor and walls. At least he believed they were machines, but it was impossible for him to tell. The technology that surrounded him and had become his home was a complete mystery and might have been something supernatural -- for as much as he was able to understand it. Occasionally during one of his many explorations, he would stop to examine a particularly strange apparatus in an attempt to discern its function. During these data gathering forays, he often thought that a former associate of his would have been particularly useful for this endeavor. _He_ would gladly have spent many years learning all the things this place had to offer. It would take a thousand of the most accomplished scientists ten lifetimes to learn even a fraction of the knowledge that was available here. 

Although there were much faster and more sophisticated means of transportation at his disposal, walking afforded him the opportunity to see firsthand as much of his new home as possible. The particular corridor he presently occupied was about a thousand feet wide with a five hundred foot ceiling, and could go on for miles. This, coupled with the sheer number of similarly sized corridors, which numbered in the hundreds, perhaps thousands, his self prescribed task was Herculean. In the year that he had spent here he had only been able to explore a small percentage of the endless _hallways_. The immense rooms that these corridors sometimes led to were even larger still. It was to one of these rooms that he had been summoned. 

As large as the room was, a gargantuan figure still managed to dominate it. His massive back facing the entrance, the giant gave no indication that anyone had entered the room, although this lack of reaction meant nothing. The giant was aware of all that transpired in his home. This absence of a response was more a matter of his vistor's lack of significance to the great being than of the giant's awareness of his surroundings. The vistor understood his master's regard for inferior beings. They simply were beneath his notice. 

As usual, he did not wait to be addressed and spoke with no visible acknowledgment of his presence. "Preparations are underway. All will be ready upon our scheduled arrival."

The giant's response was in a deep resonant timbre, without inflection, that conveyed absolute authority. "Very well. During your short time here, your performance has been quite adequate. See that it continues."

"I will return to my prescribed duties."

The giant momentarily discontinued his efforts and although still facing away, the slight inclination of his head clearly indicated that he was expecting something more.

"...Master."

This seemed to satisfy the giant, who resumed his mysterious activities.

He exited the room to complete his tasks and resume his exploration. Direct confrontation with his captor at this time would be suicide, even for a being with his power. Escape was his only option and events were developing that might afford him just that opportunity. A smile formed on his face that contained no humor and would only terrify or impart a sense of foreboding to the poor soul unfortunate enough to witness it. Yes, his stay here would serve him well for the future. He had learned many useful things in a brief period of time, things that could be learned nowhere else. With this knowledge, he would eventually pay back his "master" and those like him. They would serve _him_, or die. After all, was this not part of his ultimate objective?

An even larger, more terrifying smile spread across his face. He would accomplish all the things he had first set out to do over 5,000 years ago. This unforeseen captivity would only serve to strengthen him and help him achieve his goals. His ultimate goals in mind, Earth's first and most powerful mutant, the dread lord Apocalypse, purposefully went about his appointed tasks.

* * *

Next 


	2. Chapter 1

A TEST OF POWER

**BY DR**

Chapter 1

From this arises the question  
whether it is better to be loved  
rather than feared, or feared rather than loved.  
It might perhaps be answered that we should wish  
to be both: but since love and fear can hardly exist  
together, if we choose between them, it is far safer  
to be feared.

**Niccolo Machiavelli**  
Il Principe 1532

_The Present_

Professor Charles Xavier crossed the study and parted the heavy drapes to reveal a clear crisp night sky filled with multitude of twinkling stars. He thoroughly enjoyed evenings like this -- as long as he was indoors. The fireplace contained a few quietly burning logs that filled the room with warmth as well a golden glow which always had such a relaxing effect on him. The perfect environment to sit down and enjoy a new book that he had recently purchased. 

He placed his hand on the window pane, which revealed something else about this evening, it was extremely cold -- unusually so. As he glanced across the great lawn of his Westchester mansion, he noticed a thin cloud of smoke rising from just below the window. He quickly looked down see that it was not smoke at all but steam that was coming off of Logan, who was engaged in some form of martial arts exercises -- in a short sleeve shirt, no less. A small smile formed on his face as he recalled the time Logan had asked him why he had such an aversion to the cold weather. 

What were Logan's exact words?..." You shouldn't spend so much time indoors Chuck. Cold air, a little sunshine, puts hair on yer head." 

"I thought you said that is what your beer drinking did," the Professor had commented dryly. 

"Nah! I said drinking beer put hair on your back. You want to know where you get hair if you drink whiskey?" 

Maybe I should consult Henry on that question. His overly hirsute condition might best qualify him to answer that." 

"If you mean McCoy's got a lot of hair you're right there, but he's the teetotaling type. Then again, maybe he is tipping a few beakers back with the amount of time he spends in that lab all by his lonesome." 

He closed the drapes and left Logan to his exercises. Logan was right though. Charles telepathically located Henry right where one would expect to find him these days, in the medical lab, tirelessly working on a cure for the Legacy Virus. Without even a focused telepathic scan, he could sense wave after wave of intense frustration emanating from the labs sole occupant. He had been meaning to speak to Henry about taking a much needed vacation and felt it might give him a fresh perspective with his work. Charles could understand better than most what intense and prolonged frustration could do to the human mind. He was just about to telepathically summon him when Robert Drake burst into the lab recommending just what Charles had in mind. He withdrew his telepathic probe from the lab and made a mental note to speak with Henry first thing in the morning. 

* * *

Bobby Drake crashed into the lab with his normal child like exuberance, not bothering to check whether any medical restrictions were in place due to the current nature of Dr. Henry McCoy's research. He then proceeded to gently spiral a football right into the small of the stooped back of the tired doctor, who was squinting into a microscope as he examined a slide. Henry continued his work and didn't seem to notice that Bobby had even entered the room. 

"So that's how it's going to be Hank. I am not going away until you say yes." 

"You have yet to pose a question," Hank mumbled. 

"Oh so there _is_ someone alive under that blue fur coat!" Bobby laughed. "Let me cut to the chase. Me, Warren, and Logan, are heading down to the Meadowlands tomorrow to watch the Jets and the Dolphins play football. Warren's got some primo season tickets -- four to be exact -- and you are cordially invited." 

"I have too much work to accomplish this weekend Bobby," Henry said without glancing up from his microscope. "Why don't you ask Bishop?" 

"Bishop?!" Bobby exclaimed. "Considering that no one has seen him for the last few months, that would be kind of difficult! Besides, I said we were going to a ball game, not a funeral. Come on Hank, you remember football. Heck, you even used to play it a hundred years and four college degrees ago! Do I have to bullet my next pass into the back of your head to get you out of this cave?" 

"This is not a cave Robert, it is a medical laboratory. A laboratory that might be useful in saving lives if I were not constantly interrupted for fatuous reasons!" Henry angrily snapped out his response, raising his voice with each successive word. 

Bobby stood dumbfounded at the angry outburst -- Hank had never taken that tone with him before. But he knew that Hank was under intense pressure to come up with a cure for the Legacy Virus. People were dying, and Bobby's seemingly juvenile antics was his way of helping Henry deal with that. 

"I'm sorry Hank," Bobby said quietly. "I just thought that you needed a break," he went on nervously. Me and the rest of the guys thought that you've been working way too hard. Logan was just saying the other day that the rest of the X-men always get to solve our problems with our fists."

"McCoy gets all the damn near impossible problems and he's got to use his noodle to solve 'em." Bobby tried to inject a little humor into his explanation, hoping his best "gruff" voice imitation of Logan would lighten Henry's mood. He continued in a more serious tone. "Hank, I know what you do for the team, for mutants in general, is much more important than anything I've ever done or will do. I just come off like the class clown all the time." 

Hank sighed. "Robert, please forgive me and accept my sincerest apology," his voice already tinged with regret. "My frustration level with all my ineffectual attempts to find a cure for the Legacy Virus has reached an all-time high. Everything I've tried has been a dismal failure. My anger has nothing to do with you and is inexcusable." A small smile crossed Henry's face. "Maybe a football game is just what the doctor -- or rather, the _Iceman_ -- ordered," he said, sounding more like himself already. 

"Perhaps I could interest you in a game of a different sort."

The chillingly familiar voice startled both Bobby and Hank. They spun around and were horrified to see Mr. Sinister step out of one of his reality-defying dimensional portals, appearing out of thin air right in the middle of the lab. As the transport doorway closed, Bobby overcame his initial shock and his training took over. He began to move while simultaneously assuming his iceform. Logan had constantly drilled it into all of the X-Men to never present an opponent with a stationary target, move immediately. This seemingly obvious bit of advice was often ignored by even seasoned fighters. He had once told Bobby that it was the very first few seconds that almost invariably determined the outcome of any fight. 

With just a casual wave of his hand, Sinister enveloped Bobby in a faintly glowing pink sphere which literally froze him in place. Bobby was conscious but unable to move. The ease in which Bobby was rendered harmless actually stopped Henry in mid-stride from manually activating the intruder alarm. What also stopped him was the impassive manner with which Sinister now greeted them. 

"Gentlemen, please consider the mode of my arrival. I could have just as easily sent my team of Marauders, an explosive device, anything I wished. I assure you, I mean you no harm. All I have is a simple request. Your acquiescence is of great importance but you will have a choice and will not be forced in any way." Sinister delivered this seemingly benign little speech with his hands folded innocuously in front of him, attempting to dilute the natural menace he exuded. 

Although Henry, like many of the other X-Men, had an almost intrinsic fear of Sinister, Sinister's logic did not escape him. With just his transport technology alone, Henry could think of twenty different ways he could have destroyed any of the X-men -- or the entire mansion for that matter. Sinister was far too prudent a man to show up at the proverbial lion's den ill equipped, and would certainly expect to encounter some resistance, to say the least. Because he was a consummate planner, Bobby's initial reaction although understandable, was doomed to failure because of the caliber of the adversary they faced. 

Henry shuddered. Yes, perhaps their greatest and most insidious enemy had somehow easily bypassed possibly the most advanced security system on the planet, and was standing in the middle of their home completely unhampered, currently free to wreak havoc and do as he pleased. But he took solace in the fact that mechanical and electronic systems were not the only things that the mansion contained that could detect the presence of an intruder. That thought calmed Henry to some degree, allowing him to focus and present a somewhat calm and clear-thinking disposition. 

This subtle change in Henry's demeanor did not go unnoticed by Sinister. "Your comrades have no idea that I am here so no one will be coming to your aid, nor will you require any. If you refuse my request as well as my offer I will leave peacefully." 

_A consummate planner indeed with an uncanny way of foreseeing any and all possibilities,_ Henry thought. He also wondered if Sinister was somehow screening his own presence and this conversation from the several telepaths that resided in the mansion. "Release Robert as a show of good faith and I will consider your request," Henry demanded with as much false bravado as he could muster stalling for time. 

"Obtain his promise that he will attempt no attack on my person, what little good it would do, and he will be released. But rest assured, should he break his promise, I will employ the same abilities I have just demonstrated in tandem, and young Mr. Drake will find his head and thorax in two vastly different locations." Bobby understood that this was no idle threat especially when Sinister punctuated his remark with an intimidating stare. 

"As long as you don't try to harm Hank, I won't do a thing" Bobby managed to croak trying to sound as confident as possible considering his situation, but was unable to meet Sinister's gaze. 

"Then we are in agreement and can converse like civilized men." The pink sphere surrounding Bobby disappeared and he was able to move again. 

Unhurried, Sinister slowly approached Henry, his gait a mixture of grace and strength, innate confidence and power oozing with every step. Henry had to consciously fight back the urge to run and managed to hold his ground. Sinister towered over Henry, his terrifying white visage now within a few feet of his own face. His elaborate costume, if one could call it a costume, with cloth-like tendrils fanning out in all directions, suspended in air with seemingly a life of their own. They reminded Henry of the hair of the mythical Medusa, a sea of poisonous snakes constantly in motion and on guard ready to strike at any moment. 

Henry had often wondered about this choice of outfits for Mr. Sinister. He certainly did not possess a flamboyant personality -- quite the opposite really, more like a mortician from a bad John Caradine movie as Logan was fond of saying. No, Sinister was first and foremost a scientist and was primarily concerned with functionality and efficiency, not appearance. He was convinced that the _costume,_ was not a costume at all, but an extension of Sinister's own body configured in such a way to harness much of the known and possibly unknown and unseen ambient energy that everyone was constantly bombarded with. The crackle that Henry felt in the air as Sinister approached confirmed his theory. Yes, he now was quite sure. This was the closest he had ever been, or ever wanted to be to Mr. Sinister. Henry could feel almost a static electricity in the air around him as well as see a very faint blue glow at the end of each of the tendrils of his spidery shroud. But he was quite sure that it was not simple electricity that Sinister was able to harness especially when he employed this energy with such a wide variety of uses and with such devastating effects. 

"May I?" Sinister motioned toward the microscope. 

"Of...Of course," Henry stammered. 

Sinister bent his large torso over the microscope to peer into the eyepiece, and with his gloved hand he expertly adjusted the focusing and lighting knobs with practiced ease. "Ahh. I see that you are continuing your quest to find a cure for this troublesome little bug." Without looking up, Sinister held out a computer disk with all the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "This might help you towards those ends." 

Henry cautiously reached out and took the disk but kept it at arms length from his body. Sinister straightened. "Please allay your suspicions Dr. McCoy. Given our past, I can understand your mistrust, but kindly read what is on the disk." 

Henry still hesitated. When dealing with Sinister everything came at a cost. As oddly superstitious as it may have sounded, he suspected that as soon as he viewed the disk's contents, his soul would be forfeit and there might be no turning back. 

"Let me assuage your fears and put this into terms you might be more comfortable with. This information will cost you nothing. The data on that disk will no doubt be helpful, but it will be the subsequent information that will be especially useful." 

"And that information comes with a price," Henry said openly, not trying to mask the suspicious edge in his voice. 

There was no maniacal grin or sarcastic remark from Sinister. He delivered an expressionless answer in response to Henry's statement. 

"Your cooperation will benefit both humans and mutants...all you and your X-Men profess to stand for." 

"And the benefit to you?" Henry asked with more than a slight bit of sarcasm. 

"I do not claim to be a good Samaritan. My motives remain my own. But as a scientist, you must review all the information available to be able to make an informed judgment. You may begin with the disk." 

Sinister's last statement was not a request but a polite command. Although Sinister remained expressionless, Henry believed his patience was at an end. The stakes were to high to decline his offer. Without anymore discourse, he inserted the disk into his PC and quickly scanned through its contents. He was immediately struck by the sheer scope of the research data he was reading. Sinister was erudite even by Hank's standards, and this was most definitely reflected by the esoteric theories he was now just touching on. 

"This...this is years ahead of where I am now! This also supports my recent supposition that the Legacy Virus does not behave entirely like a virus but has many of the attributes of a bacteriologic infection as well," Henry said excitedly. 

Bobby could hear how thrilled Henry was to actually confirm some of his own theories by how many octaves his voice had risen. Bobby was no psychologist, but it was obvious to him how easily Sinister manipulated people by seemingly granting their fondest desires and was more than a little concerned at Hank's present state of mind. 

"Are you familiar with Menigococcal Meningitis?" Sinister asked. 

"Yes I am," Henry said eagerly. Meningitis occurs globally an shows an endemic pattern in temperate climates causing a steady number of sporadic cases or small clusters with seasonal increase in the winter period." 

That is true but Meningococcal Meningitis is the only form of bacterial meningitis which causes epidemics," Sinister lectured. "The highest rates occur in young children, while during epidemics older children, teenagers and young adults are also affected. Transmission is by direct contact, including respiratory droplets from the nose and throat of infected persons." 

"Are you familiar with viral hemorrhagic fevers?" Sinister queried. 

"Yes. They are a group of diseases caused by viruses from for distinct families of viruses; filoviruses, arenaviruses, flaviviruses, and bunyaviruses," Henry quickly rattles off. 

"All from memory, impressive" Sinister commented as if speaking to an eager pupil. 

"The usual hosts for most of these viruses are rodents or arthropods," Sinister continued. 

Henry noticed that Bobby's somewhat confused expression became more pronounced after Sinister's last statement. "Arthropods are ticks and mosquitoes Bobby," Henry supplied. 

Bobby just nodded his head and looked slightly embarrassed and a little annoyed that Henry had not only noticed his confusion, but chose to highlight it by saying out it loud. 

Sinister ignored the interchange and continued. "In some cases, such as Ebola virus, the natural host for the virus is unknown. All forms of viral hemorrhagic fever begin with fever and muscle aches. The severity of viral hemorrhagic fever can range from relatively mild illness to death." 

"The origin of the Legacy virus is also unknown," Henry interrupted. 

"A distinct liability that I am not subject to," Sinister said with a trace of smugness creeping into his voice. "That is one of the advantages that I have had over you in studying the disease," Sinister said casually as if relating tomorrow's weather forecast. 

"How is that possible?" Henry asked incredulously. "Stryfe brought the Legacy Virus back from the future. You would have no way to determine, study, or have access to the original host." 

Sinister ignored his disbelief and did not enlighten Henry as to what his earlier dissertation had to do with a cure for the Legacy Virus. "Let us adjourn to one of my labs and we can continue this discussion and answer some of your questions. I must insist that we proceed with some alacrity. No doubt one or more of your colleagues might visit this lab and be less than pleased with my presence. Even though your detection devices have been rendered temporarily inoperative, some of your more psi sensitive teammates might delve a little deeper into the psionic deception I've placed over this room." 

Sinister noticed Henry's inquisitive look. 

"You appear to be sleeping to anyone who would make no more than a cursory examination to the occupants of this room," Sinister explained. 

Henry's facial expression did not change significantly. 

"Mr. Drake and myself would appear as light background noise...as if you were dreaming." 

Yeah, Hank's nightmare, Bobby thought. 

Although Henry was not a telepath, he understood the difference between unrefined, brute force type telepathy, and delicate skill, and which was more difficult. It was his turn to be impressed. A very subtle deception indeed. 

"I am sure only a skilled telepath could achieve so effective a deception considering the quality of the telepaths that reside in this household," Henry commented. 

Sinister would not acknowledge that he was a telepath or possessed telepathic ability, which was secretly Henry's intent. So little was known about Sinister's actual mutant abilities or even if he was a mutant at all. 

"I have a fair amount of knowledge concerning telepathy. Again, it would only stand up against a casual examination. In addition, should one of your more nocturnal teammates venture close to this lab, his acute olfactory senses would no doubt detect my presence. I am sure you will concur that his recalcitrant nature does not lend itself to reasonable colloquy. And as distasteful as I might find it, I might be forced to defend myself and will employ a much less passive approach than I did with young Mr. Drake." 

Although Sinister neither changed his inflection or raised his voice, Henry understood what he was implying. Make a decision to leave now or people might get hurt. 

"I will accompany you back to your lab," Henry said firmly. 

"Not by yourself, I'm coming with you," Bobby said just as firmly. 

"Don't be ridiculous Robert," Henry said immediately. "It is not necessary to endanger...it is not necessary for both of us to go. Our discussions would only bore you." 

"I know you don't trust him anymore than I do," Bobby said pretending to ignore Sinister's oppressive presence. "You're not going alone." 

Henry could tell that Bobby was determined to accompany him. Honestly, Henry had to admit to himself, no matter how intrigued the scientific part of his mind was at the prospect of what he might learn from Sinister concerning the Legacy Virus, the primitive part of his brain was terrified at the thought of being alone with him. He genuinely wanted Bobby's company and was touched that Bobby was willing to place himself in potential danger for no other reason to be assured that he was all right. 

Sinister opened one of his dimensional doorways. 

"Do you have any objections if Bobby accompanies me," Henry asked? 

"If you feel more comfortable with a companion," Sinister motioned towards the portal, "then by all means." 

Hank began to furiously scribble something on a piece of paper. 

"I take it you are leaving a note for your esteemed Professor." 

Henry cautiously nodded. 

"You needn't be alarmed. That is quite acceptable. In addition, you may contact the X-Men on a daily basis in order to assure them of your continued safety." 

This surprised both Hank and Bobby but did not make them any less suspicious of Sinister's intentions. 

"One last thing. You have not given me a reason why you need my help. I must insist on one before we depart," Hank demanded. 

Sinister paused at the threshold of the portal, as if contemplating his choice of words in order to answer Henry's question. He turned staring directly into Henry's eyes with a particularly intense and frightening countenance. 

"Fair enough, I wish to enlist your aid in killing Apocalypse." With that, Sinister turned and stepped into the portal, his swirling and undulating cape following in his wake, and politely commanded "follow me gentleman." 

Both Henry and Bobby looked at one another. Things had gone from bad to worse. 

"Well he's showing us the door, you first," Bobby managed a smile. 

"Into the abyss," Hank said without his usual touch of humor and stepped through the doorway. 

"Yeah right." Bobby took a deep breath and followed Hank. 

* * *


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Marvel Comics and are being used for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

**A Test of Power**

****

by DR

Chapter 2

* * *

The people have always some champion whom they  
set over them and nurse them into greatness...  
This and no other is the root from which a tyrant  
springs; when he first appears he is a protector. 

**Plato**   
The Republic ca. 390 B.C.

It was an absolutely beautiful morning with a rich azure sky. He admired the bucolic panorama, uncharacteristically savoring the view and this rare moment of tranquility. A slight breeze caused the tops of long blades of grass to gently sway in unison on a hilltop overlooking the Genoshan coastline. Golden beams of sunshine shown down warming his face allowing even the "Master of Magnetism" to relax, if only for a moment, before his scheduled encounter. Hardly the place or setting one would expect a meeting of two of the most powerful men on the planet to occur.

Magneto sat in one of the two high backed wooden chairs that his Acolytes had placed here with his specific instructions on how they should be positioned. His own chair was at the top of a gradual incline that allow would him to look down at the eventual occupant of the other chair. He considered this a small psychological advantage, maybe even petty, but nonetheless something he deemed necessary.

He allowed his thoughts to drift for a time in quiet contemplation on just _who_ he was meeting with, but was by no means oblivious to his surroundings. He still remained vigilant by monitoring the local electromagnetic spectrum and any changes that would signal the arrival of his _guest._

_Mr. Sinister,_ he mused. Certainly a strange name, even for a mutant designation which usually described an ability or an appearance. He assumed that this was a self ascribed moniker which might just in itself indicate a good deal about this mysterious scientist. He had compiled an extensive file on Mr. Sinister, much of the intelligence gleaned from the X-men's own data base. But while the file was somewhat voluminous, none of the information it contained was definitive enough for Magnus' liking. There was just too much supposition and not enough hard facts. 

He repositioned himself in his chair for perhaps the tenth time and once again scanned the surrounding area to see that his people were in place. Although he would never admit it openly, his movements reflected that that he was a bit uneasy about this meeting. He had taken great care and time to prepare for Sinister's visit, but had a nagging feeling that he had missed something important. 

The shroud of mystery that surrounded Sinister was most certainly premeditated and also quite effective at keeping his true goals a secret. Sinister's activities gave one the impression that he was just another mad scientist, although Magnus believed that this was deliberate deception on his part, and Sinister had some unknown purpose in mind. And as comfortable as he was with his ability to deal with anything out of the ordinary, he preferred to enter any new situation as prepared as possible. 

He had never met Sinister himself which was not that unusual when one considered Sinister's reported nature. He seemed to prefer the shadows and operate behind the scenes through other people, many times unknown to the people themselves. He came and went as he pleased, his true motives never revealed.

The array of his documented abilities was extremely impressive but was also inconclusive concerning their source. It was rumored that he not a mutant at all but a centuries old mutate. Magnus was somewhat doubtful of this. If he was a mutate, he was by far the most powerful mutate yet conceived. Although upon further relfection, the mutate process he supposedly underwent was performed by Apocalypse, an even stranger and more mysterious individual if that were possible.1 And anything was possible with the alien science that Apocalypse seemed to employ.

His brief moment of serenity was interrupted by slightest disturbance in the local electromagnetic field. He would not have detected anything this subtle if he was not specifically monitoring this small an area. The disturbance was unlike any other he had experienced and catalogued that particular information for analysis at some other time.

Mr. Sinister stepped out from what appeared to be a brightly lit rectangular doorway that had appeared from thin air in the small clearing. He paused remaining motionless for a moment, and seemed to be assessing his surroundings, but oddly did not look in any particular direction at first. He seemed completely at ease and slowly turned his head in Magnus's direction, an unreadable expression on his face. Magnus was impressed despite himself.

Physically, Sinister was an extremely large man, heavily muscled, handsome even. But over the years Magneto had come across a great number of superhumans and mutants who were much larger than even the largest human being. No, it was more his bearing than any physical trait that made an immediate impression on him. It was the way Sinister carried himself; arrogant, aristocratic, regal evenand none of it was feigned, Magnus could easily tell the difference. He had been in the presence of men of power before and could tell after the first few seconds of seeing Sinister, that Sinister was in a category all by himself. 

"I am most appreciative that you have taken the time to grant me this audience and provided me with such comfortable accommodations," Sinister said gesturing broadly to his surroundings. "I am aware that you are currently engaged with establishing and securing your new position. Perhaps I may be of some assistance."

The portal closed around Sinister. He leisurely walked the ten feet to the chair, his footsteps not making the slightest sound and gracefully sat down. His expansive cape automatically retracted, disappearing into his body.

Another thing that was made immediately evident to Magnus now that they were face to face he did not like Sinister. He felt an almost instant loathing to the very core of his being. Perhaps it had to do with his knowledge of some of Sinister's _ventures_ that had jaded him to some degree before actually ever meeting him. His reputation for _experimentation_ on mutants was almost common knowledge. Also, his central role in the "Morlock Massacre" and affiliation with the Marauders would alone earn him the disgust and animosity from even people like himself.

But the feelings he had for Sinister became much more palpable upon actually seeing him. The man exuded a malevolence that was almost tangible. And something about this _man,_reminded him of _other_ men he had known callous, pitiless men. Individuals who would kill just to learn a fact or test a theory. Men, women, and even children were considered expendable to these butchers, all for the pursuit of scientific gain. He had killed people before and had no qualms about killing again, but that was out of necessity or self defense. Somehow he got the definite impression that it was quite different with Sinister.

At another time, he would have considered it a poor strategy to let an adversary see and hear his emotions. But he saw no reason to withhold his feelings about Sinister. He almost felt it would be inappropriate. This was his island, his world, and his people. He was master here.

"Spare me your platitudes Sinister," Magneto said contemptuously. "Before we go any further, your reputation as a manipulator of events and _people_ is intimately known to me. I warn you, I am not someone who can be coerced or compelled to do anything that I do not wish to do. Attempt any subterfuge or participate in any skullduggery against my country or its people, and I will track you down and kill you. I know you are a self serving leach. I assure you, none of your sleight of hand will work with me. I also know the information you sent me to gain my interest was nothing more than bait. If this is a trap, it is a poorly conceived one. What do you want?" Magnus asked caustically."

Sinister let out an exasperated sigh, like a man who was used to being repeatedly misunderstood. "I would think that even you would agree what a poor stratagem it is to conduct this meeting on your 'home turf', if I may use the vernacular. I am also aware of the several mutants and their abilities that have me currently surrounded. I believe three telepaths is a bit excessive. I am not sure whether I should be insulted or flattered. This is hardly a trap of _my_ making."

Magneto was again impressed and he was certainly not an easy man to impress. Despite his rather confrontational little speech, he was extremely wary of Sinister and the damage he might be capable of in Genosha now and in the future. His abilities were nothing short of astounding. As a precaution, he had blanketed the surrounding area with a low level EM pulse the instant Sinister had arrived, in the hopes that it would render any electronic devices that Sinister would have on his person inoperative. Certainly EM shielding was possible but effective EM shielding for any electronic device was usually somewhat cumbersome. A scientist of Sinister's caliber could certainly have developed better and less intrusive shielding but he could detect no electronic devices whatsoever neither active nor passive. He was also in constant communication with three of his best telepaths who he had assumed were well hidden in the surrounding tall grass. They were on guard for any telepathic activity. They had reported none. How Sinister was aware that any of his Acolytes, let alone who they were and what their powers were, he did not know. What he did know was that Sinister was not someone to be trifled with.

"State your business quickly so I may return to my home and wash the stench off my clothes."

Sinister's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "As you wish. The disk I sent you is a memory recording the time traveling mutant named Bishop who is currently a member of the X-men. It is a chronicle of his experiences in an alternate reality...2

"I am familiar with this so called "Age of Apocalypse", Magnus interrupted.

Sinister's eyebrows rose slightly expressing mild surprise.

"You are not the only one who values information."

"Of course", Sinister nodded. 

"So why should the information on that disk interest me?" Despite his comments, Magnus was completely fascinated with the data on that disk. He had indeed obtained information concerning the M'Krann Crystal, Xavier's son David, and the repercussions that Charles's death had on this reality. But what he had obtained could not compare to what Sinister had provided him an actual memory recording of someone who had lived in that universe who had fought along side _him_ and the X-men, who _he_ led against Apocalypse. Despite the fact that the information he examined was fantastic, he had managed to corroborate enough of the data on the disk to conclude that it was indeed authentic.

"You felt that because of my past, my personal history, that I might find particular portions of the disk disturbing, disturbing enough to help you defeat Apocalypse as you stated in your initial transmission to me." Magneto's tone was openly wary, mistrustful. 

"Ah yes. You must be referring to the camps," Sinister said in serious tone. "The death camps he will institute will be like nothing ever seen on this earth. Billions of humans and _mutants_ will be exterminated, fodder for his processing plants. Any future reality where Apocalypse has realized his _dream,_ is a dead reality, devoid anything you would define as a future. I can assure you that this is what Apocalypse has planned for _this_ reality. There are others with shall I say, more sterling reputations than mine that can attest all of my claims. Cable is one such individual who has had some first hand experience with a future molded by the hand of Apocalypse."

Magnus snorted. "Yes I will consult Cable to vouch for the veracity of your story as soon as we conclude our meeting. You almost sound concerned," he added, his tone and expression clearly demonstrating that he doubted Sinister's sincerity. "Even if I did trust you, and I do not, I will not need your aid in ridding the world of Apocalypse. I know the potential exists that someday I might have to confront that madman, but I will not need your help. And as far as your request for my aid, the answer is no."

Sinister rose from the chair, a menacing gleam in his eye. "I am not the diplomat I believe myself to be."

Magneto immediately rose in response, gathering his energies around him and alerting his Acolytes to move into a more offensive posture.

Sinister smiled. "There is no need for any hostility," he said holding his hands out by his side to show that he was unarmed. "Must it always come to this? I only offer you freedom of choice. Despite your wish to remain uninvolved, I will transmit the time and location of our little tet a tet with Apocalypse. I will also leave you with this little bit of information which is known only to myself. You may wish to add this to your own extensive knowledge of mutants and it may aid you should you ever come into conflict with Apocalypse. I will let you determine its value."

"Apocalypse is a mutant gifted with extraordinary abilities. Some of these abilities are obvious, while others are not. One of his mutant powers that is not visible to the naked eye is his ability to recognize and also gauge the power of a mutant, latent or otherwise." Sinister's tone changed ever so slightly, becoming a bit more malicious. "You might not be familiar that one of your former lapdogs Bennet Du Paris...Oh, you know him as Exodus, is one such example.3 He was able to see the quiescent power that he possessed and trigger it. He has done this to a number of individuals over the years, many times using life threatening situations as a kind of catalyst." 

A portal suddenly expanded about Sinister. Magnus immediately strengthened the magnetic force bubble around him and attempted to probe the interior of the portal for any sign that something else might be coming through. He could sense nothing, nothing at all, not even the interior of the portal itself. It was if his powers abruptly ceased to function right at the threshold of the doorway.

"How is your family Magnus, your son and your daughter?" Sinister asked with a look of mock concern.

Magneto gathered more energy, the air crackling about him and rose into the air with a disgusted look on his face. The insincerity and inappropriatness of the question quickly angered him, although he realised that might have been Sinister's intention. "So the leopard finally shows his true spots. What should one expect from someone who chooses to call himself Sinister." 

"Nothing more than a bit of healthy self recrimination. You should try it sometime, I find it rather good for the soul," Sinister said with an evil glint in his eye.

Magneto ignored Sinister's last comment. "If you seek to threaten me through my children, you are sadly mistaken. Surely you must know that they live their own lives, the lives of _heroes_ and would oppose me at every turn. But I find the presumptuousness of your implied threat an offense none the less."

A cloud of irritation passed over Sinister's face. "I wasn't threatening your children but there is somewhat of a link. Weren't you at all curious about my little lesson on Apocalypse's abilities?" Sinister inquired seeming genuinely annoyed. 

Magneto was actually very curious but said, "Conclude your gibberish and then we will find exactly how malleable that body of yours is."

Sinister continued, not seeming at all intimidated or concerned with Magneto's threats. "I told you Apocalypse can see men of power with his own innate mutant ability. One of the most powerful mutants this earth has ever spawned would stand out on a seashore like a beacon of light on a moonless night."

"What kind of fabrication are you weaving Sinister?" Magnus was extremely curious to where this was leading knowing that Sinister had a definite reason for all this preamble.

"Weren't you listening to what I was saying before? A life threatening situation, severe emotional trauma. These are the sparks that can ignite the flame of mutant powers. I imagine threatening a loved one, a _first born child_ could certainly qualify as a catalyst."

Sinister's form suddenly changed. Magneto incredulously was looking at himself many years ago, clothed in a rust colored suit and slacks, a white shirt and a green ascot. He hadn't worn that,...been dressed like that since the day,...that _day_...

Even more shocking was that he heard his voice issue from Sinister's facsimile, his own panic stricken voice, as he must of sounded those many years ago. "Innkeeper! My wife, my child Where are they!4

The air now seethed with energy and was permeated with the smell of ozone. Magneto subconsciously reached for a ten ton iron/nickel deposit that he sensed easily freeing and lifting it from the ground. It rose into the air, dirt, rocks, and grass, cascading off the huge mass as he positioned it ten feet above Sinister's head.

"How could you have...you dare!" Magneto's voice shook with rage. "How did you obtain this...this _information_," Magneto shrieked. Did you somehow pull it from my mind? Tell me now or I'll rip your arms and your legs from your body!

Sinister reverted back to his original form. "Even I cannot overcome both your natural and enhanced resistance to telepathy. I was simply there," Sinister said calmly. "_Apocalypse_ was there. He orchestrated the _experiment."_

The implications of what Sinister just suggested hit him like a sledgehammer. For a brief instant, he felt as if he would lose conciousness and his rage mounted so rapidly that he could barely speak. The reality of the moment faded and then rushed back at him as blood thundered in Magneto's ears with crystal clarity. "Experiment...with my daughter?" he rasped. **"Experiment!** Why I should believe you? Magneto blurted suddenly, screamed over the raging energies that he was now employing. "Show me some proof!" he commanded, not caring or realizing how strange his demands actually were.

"You shall have your proof." Sinister's appearance changed to that of a terrified little girl, close cropped brown hair and brown eyes. She wore simple knee length brown dress. "I am scared Poppa! There's a fire in my room, Poppa, I can't get away! I'm scared PoppaHelp me!" 

He felt as if he had swallowed a bowling ball size piece of lead and it abruptly dropped into the bottom of his stomach. "Impossible," Magnus whispered. "Anya...?" Her appearance, her voice, her expression, her words, were exactly as they had been on that fateful day...exactly.

Despite the emotions that he was now exhibiting, Magnus was not oblivious to what Sinister was trying to achieve. He knew that Sinister would use any means convince him to do his bidding. He had prepared himself to deal with possible threats, blackmail and the like. But he never believed that anything Sinister would say could hurt him not like this. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Truth be told, no single moment in his life, not the horrific experiences in the camps, the estrangement of his wife, the enmity of his children, Pietro and Wanda, the betrayal of Control,5 could even compare with the death of his beloved Anya. His ultimate failure. The great and powerful Magneto had been unable to protect his own daughter. 

But how had Sinister known that this might be the one thing in his life, the one past event that might give him pause or allow him some form of leverage? How could he have known about such specifics?

The memory and emotions came unbidden, flooding his soul. She had been everything to both Magda and himself, an angelic picture of trusting innocence. After all that they had been through, she was the only medicine to heal their scared souls. She had redeemed him...for a time, washing away many of the things that were done to him and the things he had done in order to survive. During the time after her birth, world issues and mutant affairs were things off in the distant future. Overnight he had wanted to change the world only for her, to make it an easier and safer place just for her. She was to be the receptacle for all their dreams and aspirations. She had given him back his humanity, gave Magda the ability to love him again...gave them back everything they thought they could never have or feel again...everything the camps had taken away. They had so little then but he knew now that it had been the most happy time in his life.

He had never forgotten that day...could never forget. The sounds of her pleading voice for him...her father to rescue her from the burning house. She had leapt to her death because of the terror, the pain... The image of her charred body at his feet, the sickening smell of burned hair and flesh...all that remained his little Anya. The memory, the unending grief, brought such pain to his heart and mind, even now it threatened to overwhelm him. He felt as if he was once again suffocating under both the guilt and sorrow.

Even with all these emotions raging through his mind, he steeled himself. He knew pain and loss better than any man...and had survived. He also knew that this is what Sinister did...that this was his _true_ power over people. But he was not other people. Sinister would have no hold on him. He would not allow even this to affect his judgment. But what Sinister had shown him was so real, down to the most minute detail. Were his claims actually possible? 

Sinister was reputed to be hundreds of years old, his master Apocalypse, thousands of years old. Could Apocalypse have been aware of his existence and had sown the emergence of his mutant powers? He had to know more, needed to know more. One thing he did know was that he would kill Sinister, he swore that to himself.

"If you were there, tell me more," he said menacingly but surprisingly in a calm tone of voice.

"You have regained a certain measure of composure. I applaud your control over the recounting of such a tragic event," Sinister said without any trace of mocking in his voice. I will give you the proof or allow you to arrive at the truth yourself. Think back to that day. The men holding you, restraining you from attempting to rescue your daughter. You were in an understandably hysterical state and yet these men, actually only one held you, easily. Surely you are familiar with the strength that normal human beings are capable of during times of extreme stress. Five such men could not hold an adrenaline fed father from getting to his child. How was this one man able to accomplish this?"

This immediately struck a chord in Magnus bringing him back to the events of that day. It was something that had perplexed him that he had never been able to reconcile. The fact that the events of that day were so _overwhelming_ had allowed him to put it into the back of his mind, but he had never forgotten.

There were two men who had first grabbed him to restrain him. He had thrown one of them to the ground easily. But the other man...a single man had stopped from going to his daughter. He had been held, not held, but completely rendered immobile. He had struggled like a crazed lunatic but had not been able to move, not even fractionally. He remembered the man's face...expressionless, soulless eyes, studying him. The man, hadn't even been straining. He could even now feel his crushing grip around his wrists. He had felt like a small child in those hands. "How...?" He looked back at Sinister.

Instead he saw a man dressed in a long blue coat, a short brown club in one hand, a fur cap with a single white star that denoted him as an officer of the state. The _man_ who had held him from Anya those many years ago. The form suddenly changed into a blue hued giant with metallic skin and the hideously terrifying face of..."Apocalypse!" Magneto growled through clenched teeth. 

"Better to teach this dog some new tricks Dimitri," Sinister said as he returned to his true form. "Those were the words that Apocalypse spoke as he beat you, were they not?" 

Magneto descended to the ground to a spot ten feet in front of Sinister and dropped his magnetic shield, but the rock still remained suspended in the air over Sinister's head. "It has occurred to me that this person that you claim was Apocalypse could have just as easily been you," Magnus said with a terrible quiet anger in his voice. 

"I knew that possibility would occur to you and it is and as you have just seen, it was certainly in my ability to impersonate any of these people. But I would not threaten the life of any child in this fashion." 

"That is your defense! Magnus exclaimed in disbelief. "This coming from a man who had innocent mutant men, woman, _and_ children murdered. Do you think I am unaware of your hand in orchestrating the massacre of Morlocks?" 

"A necessary evil," Sinister said with a placid expression on his face. I am sure you have had to make similar decisions because of your power and position. But let us dispense with talk of my past actions. It is impossible to provide you with any further proof. You only need to meet at the coordinates I will provide you and you may ask Apocalypse yourself. I assure you he will answer and substantiate what I have said." 

"It makes no difference. Both you and Apocalypse had a hand in murdering my daughter. You both deserve to die," Magnus said with pure venom in his voice. 

No, no, you misunderstand me. I never said anything about murder. As a matter of fact, you owe me a great debt of gratitude. Apocalypse transported _Anya_ out before the collapse of the house. He of course did not care for the life of the child, after all another child needed to be _used_ in order for the experiment to be, shall we say _effective_. I actually convinced him that the offspring of such a powerful mutant as yourself _could_ certainly result in another powerful mutant." 

"What...what are you saying?" Magnus said, unaware or uncaring that his voice shook. 

"Apocalypse placed her in a stasis chamber...alive and completely unharmed. Although I never did get the opportunity to _examine_ her. He and I had a bit of a falling out," Sinister said with a small smile on his face. "But I assure you, the Celestial technology used is unfailing and can easily function for thousands of years. Help me and I will return your daughter to you." 

Anya alive, this was inconceivable, Magnus thought. "Even if I believe you, how do you know she is still alive?" Magnus could not help the sound of desperation that had crept into his voice. 

"Oh I didn't mention that, did I?" Sinister answered in an offhand manner as if he was talking about the weather. "I have seen her...as recent as six months ago. She is in the exact same stasis chamber and in perfect health. She has not aged a day since she was _acquired._ I have developed ways to keep track of Apocalypse as well as ways to visit him, unobserved and unannounced of course. And with someone as long lived as Apocalypse well, one tends to accumulate so many things over over such a long span of time." Sinister shrugged. "I doubt that he has any recollection of your daughter or where she is even located." 

"And I suppose I cannot count on Apocalypse's memory or charity, and that you're offering to assist me reclaim my daughter in trade for the _help_ that you seem to require," Magnus responded with a deadly tone underscoring his words. 

"I see we are beginning to understand one another. Although you may not be aware that Apocalypse has already visited Genosha...during the recent change in government," Sinister said with a smile.6 Judging by the level of death and carnage you've managed to generate, you may have already earned his favor." 

Magneto's patience had ended long ago. He could no longer silence what he truly wanted to do. "Tell me where she is you unholy bastard or I swear I will devote my entire life to killing you." During his conversation with Sinister, Magnus had not been idle. He had continually attempted to form a magnetic force bubble around him, had his telepaths attack him psionically even telekinetically. All of it had been to no avail. He was no longer even sure that Sinister was really even here. 

"And what would you do if I gave you this information? You could not get within a mile of one of Apocalypse's strongholds without his knowledge. The defenses are so far beyond your comprehension that you and your entire mutant following would be killed instantly without any need for Apocalypse to even involve himself. You also would be unable to revive your daughter without my help. I respect your scientific abilities but the Celestial technology is alien in nature and perhaps on the order of billions of years ahead of what is considered the current standard.7 It would be completely incomprehensible to you and is safeguarded as well. During my tenure with Apocalypse, I have come to understand this technology to a small degree, and have used and operated these very same stasis chambers. Only _I_ can restore your daughter to you safely. But since you can not be convinced...or what was one of the words you used...'coerced' to help me, I will take my leave." With a sweeping gesture from Sinister, the doorway suddenly closed and he was gone. 

Senyka immediately came out of the high grass and into the clearing. "What shall we do my lord?" he asked nervously, shocked by what he had seen and heard and the obvious effect it had had on his leader. 

Magneto hadn't even heard or ignored what Senyka had just said. 

There had been no battle. The meeting had transpired in the place of his choosing. Sinister had come alone while he had the full support of several of his most powerful followers. Yet never raising a hand, Sinister had accomplished exactly what he had set out to do and had soundly beaten him in every respect. The impudent pig. Sinister had indeed successfully manipulated him. He would most assuredly make an appearance at the appointed time and place to battle Apocalypse. Sinister was an overconfident fool though if he thought that he could be controlled. I will do this only because there is a chance, no matter how small that what he says may be the truth and Anya... Best not to think of Anya, better to think and plan of how he would kill both Apocalypse and Sinister.

* * *

Sinister collapsed in his lab. The energy he had expended to maintain the open doorway had almost killed him. What Magnus had not known was that Sinister had never closed the dimensional doorway after his arrival. He had never really stepped out of tesseract space but only closed the doorway enough to conform to the size and shape of his body.8 What Magnus also did not know was that the physical laws in tesseract space were completely different from the laws in this universe. Things like gravity, magnetism, and even time would not operate the same in this strange environment rendering all his attacks against him as ineffectual. Sinister had spent a better part of the last century studying and defining all the scientific laws of tesseract space in order to use this wondrous milieu to his best advantage. Recent breakthroughs on his part had expanded how he could use tesseract space to maybe aid him to defeat Apocalypse. He needed to rest and recoup his mutant energies. He was pleased in the manner his plans were progressing but there was so much more that needed to be accomplished. 

Sinister struggled to his feet and slowly walked over to a large vat of gelatinous blue liquid. He immersed one hand into the pool and proceeded to literally pour himself, completely dissolving into the restorative bath. A small ripple on the surface of the viscous fluid was the only trace left of the _man_ known as Sinister.

* * *

References:

1 The Further Adventures at Cyclops and Phoenix #3

2 X-Men #52

3 The Black Knight:Exodus

4 Classic X-Men #12 - subsequent dialogue also quoted from that issue.

5 Classic X-Men #19

6 Magneto Rex #3

7 X-Factor #50 - First time Apocalypse states that he capable of using technology taken from "Ship".

8 X-Men #34 - Sinister's use of tesseract space revealed.

* * *

Back Next


	4. Chapter 3

* * *

A TEST OF POWER

** BY DR**

Chapter 3

Men of war have long known that warriors must often abandon  
those verities they defend: peace, human kindness, love...  
for they hold no meaning to the enemy. And so to win, do we  
become what we despise, and despise what we become?

OL  
1996

The blustery and frigid winter day could only partially dispel the fetid odor that emanated from the Bethpage landfill. Neither the smell of the landfill nor the landfill itself were remarkable for Long Island. Even though environmental politics and recycling were in vogue, there still remained a few operating facilities. Their eventual _promised_ closing would make a wonderful political platform for a savvy local politician seeking office. In an otherwise completely flat landscape, these man made mountains were actually the highest points on the island and if one were so inclined, offered an excellent view of both the Atlantic Ocean and Manhattan. What distinguished this waste facility from all the others was not discernable from ground level but was located approximately two hundred and fifty feet below the surface. 

Eight-hundred thousand years ago, a vast alien underground complex was left here by the Celestials, a space fairing race of giants as old and mysterious as the universe itself. This enormous complex contained a virtual treasure trove of seemingly abandoned technology...technology that was so beyond the current standard, that it might be confused with magic. 

During the thousands of years that the complex had been on Earth, only two of its natives had physically ever set foot inside the structure. At first glance, to say these individuals were aliens might be closer to the truth than to classify them as human. Although both born of this earth, they in no way resembled what would be considered the norm for human beings but were of a superior breed of human, namely mutants. In reality, even to classify one of the occupants of this complex as simply a mutant would be a grievous error. 

The irony of a base located under tons of human garbage and refuse was not lost on the present owner and operator of this stronghold. When he had first found this abandoned Celestial monitoring station over four hundred years ago and converted it for his own personal use, even he could not have forecasted that the acres of land above the base would be used to bury the waste of hundreds of thousands of human beings. But he soon came to realize that layer upon layer of waste composed of every conceivable material, all covered by layers of specialized sand, was the best and most maintenance free camouflage possible. In addition, with the methane gas byproduct due to decaying garbage that was regularly burned off, even advanced thermal imaging satellites would see nothing out of the ordinary. That was why he considered this his most important and secure facility. 

Amidst a room littered with other worldly machines and advanced technology, the immense stone throne that occupied the corner of the dimly lit room was strangely out of place. The throne itself was the only _human_ comfort, if one considered a cold, granular stone chair thousands of years old a comfort. It was more of a personal item and had nothing to do with physical comfort at all. Apocalypse had placed and positioned the twenty-ton rock hewn throne in this very room himself. 

The origin of this throne and the identity of its fabricator's would have solved a centuries old archeological enigma that remained a mystery even today. One of the most ancient tombs, if not the most ancient, the Temple of Hatsheput was found by Howard Carter in 1902 completely intact and undisturbed. A gigantic structure, Carter fully expected to find Amenhotep I and his two sons. But the sealed tomb and sarcophagi were empty and no record was ever found to account for this mystery. Their bodies were never mummified and prepared to facilitate their journey into the afterlife befitting their position. Instead, if the truth were known, they were left to rot out in the open sands, food for the desert carrion. 

In 1353 BC, Apocalypse had chosen three individuals to carve his throne, but not for their skill in stone cutting, but as punishment. Amenhotep, one of the first pharaohs of the Eighteenth Dynasty and his only two children had been given this honor. Amenhotep and his sons had labored at the base of the Theban Peak, called by the natives el-Qurna for over a year. Upon completion of this task and without a single word, Apocalypse easily lifted the ponderous rock and brought it crashing down on his _royal slaves_. Their emaciated bodies were crushed, mercifully ending their year of hellish servitude. 

The pharaoh and his sons had also been told to carve their names into the base of the stone. What they were mercifully unaware of was that after their death, Apocalypse had pulverized some of their remains by grinding their skulls into each of the respective hieroglyphics that represented their names. This was all done in the presence of Apocalypse's millennium old slave Ozymandias. Whether it was meant to serve as an example or just a cruel whim of Apocalypse, Ozymandias did not know. But his present position of servitude after thousands of years was a testament to Apocalypse's intense dislike of men _born_ into power or wealth, as well as the complete obedience he managed to instill. 

Apocalypse's booming voice suddenly issued from the shadows reverberating off the walls. He leaned forward on the throne scanning his surroundings, his cold luminous eyes matching the unearthly glow that emanated from the alien machines. "I will no longer permit you to observe me clandestinely _Watcher_. Show yourself Uatu or I will expel you from my home."

The twenty-foot form Uatu materialized just to the right of Apocalypse, suspended ten feet above the floor. A large bulbous head completely out of proportion with an extremely slight body, the Watcher resembled more of a caricature of a human being than an alien. Clothed in flowing white robes reminiscent of members of the ancient Roman Senate, the Watcher spoke in a quiet voice that was almost effeminate. His docile temperament and gentle mannerisms belied a being of enormous cosmic might and resources. "You were able to detect my presence before I allowed it...impressive. Have you recently discovered a new piece of pilfered Celestial technology or has your unique mutant physiology manifested a new ability?" 

"I am a newborn babe in comparison to you and your venerable race of _observers."_ Apocalypse emphasized the word observers, his voice thick with disgust. "Use your great powers of observation and tell me." 

Uatu ignored the sarcasm. Apocalypse had made it very clear during one of their many past encounters that he despised apathy and inaction. To Apocalypse, the entire race of Watchers represented everything that he loathed and considered weak. "You believe that you now have the means to not only bar me from observing you, but to forcibly remove me?" 

"You have always been a source of interest to me Uatu. That, and only that is why I tolerate your presence. Rest assured, should my tolerance waver, you will have an answer to your question," Apocalypse said, eyes narrowing. "You are here to impart some information and observe my reaction no doubt," Apocalypse said brusquely. 

"Impart? No. I only wish to observe your reaction to information that you are already in possession of. Sinister has begun in earnest to move against you." 

Apocalypse smiled. "Of course." 

"And this brings you some measure of pleasure?" Uatu had an open look of curiosity on his normally expressionless face. "I have been witness to some of the most devious and conspiratorial minds in human history. Sinister should not be underestimated. His exposure to Celestial science has allowed him to leap so far ahead of even the most brilliant minds on your planet. There is no telling what he may yet achieve. His brilliance may prove to be your undoing." 

"He is precisely what I expect him to be. I freed his mind and body from the shackles of convention and time. He was chosen for his genius and strength of will. His exposure to Celestial technology was carefully orchestrated and achieved the results I desired. And should he usurp me, so be it. That is the natural order of things." 

"Exactly what _are_ the results you desire?" The Watcher asked his question in an unusually pointed manner, revealing that he had devoted a great deal of thought to the subject. "There are mysteries that surround you that even I have been unable to discern...and that should be impossible, which in itself is another mystery. Your barbaric and primitive nature defined by your predilection for public violence is all that you have allowed your enemies to see. Your ideas and goals are regarded as simplistic, no different than the countless tyrants that your world seems to produce in abundance. I contend that they are anything but simplistic. Your objectives while hardly benign, are not as desultory as they seem to be." 

Apocalypse regarded Uatu for several moments before responding, his voice sounding like the rumbling of a dormant volcano that was slowly coming to life. "What other questions about me plague you Watcher?" 

Uatu also paused for several moments before responding, choosing his words carefully. Apocalypse rarely spoke a length about his plans, let alone entertained questions. "At any time during the course of human history you could have easily subjugated the entire world's populace without any effort, yet you have not. Even to someone who is not native to this world and based on your martial philosophy, this has always seemed incongruous. It is unfortunately not the way of your kind. And to now struggle for dominance in the present when there are vastly greater forces that can be brought to bear against you is sheer insanity. What better way to control the survival of the fittest philosophy that you profess to adhere to with you as humanities sole ruler? Why let history unfold the way it has? Why allow people and resources to be wasted on imaginary border disputes, provincialism, or petty squabbles? Why allow scientific pursuits and ideas to be squelched by ruthless dictators, religious zealots and ideological fools?" 

"One could argue that the conditions of war, want, conflict and strife are necessary ingredients for the maturation of most successful species. While this is sadly true, you Apocalypse were uniquely in a position and have the power to create this state yet improve upon it a thousand fold." 

"For the physical traits that you so value, you could have forcibly bred the _strong_ as you deemed appropriate; primitive genetic manipulation by ensuring that only the most fit bred with the most fit. You could have easily created the fighting and the accompanying harsh environments that you hold are the forge of the mighty, all the while maintaining enough control to eliminate the waste of open warfare. Think of how throughout your history scientists and visionaries were imprisoned or killed because of religious or political beliefs. Throughout your lifetime you witnessed weak and cowardly men by any standards, in positions of power actively stunting the growth of your race. Yet you chose to sit idly and _observe_ what transpired. Where were you Apocalypse and why did you not see fit to 'cull the weak from the strong'?" Actual emotion had crept into the Uatu's voice. 

"You have clear knowledge of future realities where you have attained complete power in the manner you currently advocate. In all those realities your world is on the brink of complete collapse, your race on the precipice of total extinction. This is the condition that you believe will allow humanity to compete with other more technologically advanced races and spread among the stars?" 

Uatu continued not even pausing to allow Apocalypse, even if he were so inclined, to answer any of his questions. "The Celestial technology that you possess and have jealously hoarded for centuries could have been shared with the greatest minds throughout your history. Think of where mankind would be today, technologically, if you had gathered these minds together, allowing them to study and share in the utilization of these future marvels. The S'hiar and the Skrulls would be technological children in comparison. Yet you have done nothing to protect against the very aliens that you claim are a threat." 

Apocalypse's face was like granite, expressionless. Yet Uatu could somehow tell that he had Apocalypse's attention and that he was listening intently. 

"Another mystery that has perplexed me is how you were first able to gain entrance to a sentient Celestial device?1 I am the only individual on this planet, perhaps even within a thousand light-years who possesses any knowledge pertaining to automated Celestial tools. Are you aware that it is impossible for _any_ species other than the Celestials to access and operate any of their devices? Certainly a prudent precaution because the results could be catastrophic. My own race has similar safeguards against any of our technology falling into the hands of any of the more primitive races. Failure to have adequate safeguards in place would be an equivalent transgression to direct interference with an alien culture. The Celestials are even more judicious concerning their technology. Even _I_ would be unable to utilize their technology, forcibly or otherwise. Accidental possession or operation of any their equipment would bring about an immediate response from the Celestials themselves. Yet here you sit in an abandoned Celestial monitoring station using technology that is forbidden to any race other than the Celestials. You operated "Ship" for centuries completely unhampered. And even more puzzling; your ability to operate devices well beyond even the most learned individuals in you scientific community...devices constructed to respond _only_ to the mental signature of a Celestial...devices suited to _aliens_ thousands of feet tall. Yet some of the devices I see before me have some how been tailored to suit _your_ needs. What you have accomplished is categorically impossible. Despite your impressive prowess in several areas, you have absolutely no aptitude for any of the scientific disciplines. That is why you chose Sinister to aid you due to your own extremely limited capability in that area." 

Uatu expected an invective. He hoped for one, which spoke of his desperation. He knew that Apocalypse would not answer any questions directly but thought if he could trigger an uncontrolled emotional response, it might reveal something. 

Apocalypse's eyes glowed like molten ingots of white-hot steel. "You seek to uncover a conspiracy where none exists." His voice remained low but contained a menacing intensity like the sound of distant rolling thunder of an impending storm. "My contempt for your ilk is readily apparent. I have concealed nothing about my agenda. You and the rest of the alien filth pervade this planet like a disease. Skrulls, S'hiar, Kree, even your lifeless race seek to control or dominate humanity in one form or another. They are inferiors...you are inferior and will fail. I would reduce this planet to a smoldering cinder before I allow you or anyone else dictate its future. My goal is an evolutionary necessity, to elevate the natural inhabitants of _this_ world...to put humanity on an equal ground with the myriad of older races of this galaxy. Only through superior strength will we be allowed to dictate and govern our ultimate destiny. If it is at the expense of another individual, a thousand, or an entire race, so be it. You well know that without my intervention, this world would have fallen prey to invaders several times. I simply seek to insure that my race survives, no more, no less. I will guide its ascendance as I always have. And should I have discovered a means to aid me in this endeavor, only a fool would choose to ignore it...or share it." 

"Over time, I have come to understand you and your fellow Watchers. You are now acting outside the bounds of your code of beliefs. Have you not _sworn_ a pledge of noninterference? Is this not the credo that governs _every_ individual of your race?" Apocalypse's tone was both mocking and threatening. 

"Tyrants are usually quite adept at putting forth specious arguments, but you have not provided any answers to my questions," Uatu said calmly. "Although there is a ring of truth in much of what you say, I believe it is part of a much grander conspiracy whose scope I am only now beginning to discern. I also recognize your considerate reminder of my sworn oath as nothing more couched threat. You may think of me as weak Apocalypse, but I no longer fear exposure to the fellow members of my race. To a small extent, any of the interlocutions you and I have had over the course of many centuries has been a violation of that oath. But this transgression among many is necessary due to the gravity of the threat I believe you pose. I could never convince my close minded brethren that a single human is as dangerous as I believe...nor convince them to even consider any action." Uatu's expression was strangely one of regret and sadness. 

With that, Uatu withdrew to his base on the moon. He had only revealed a small measure of what he knew to Apocalypse in order to first gauge his response. Uatu had often wondered what Apocalypse would say if he knew that he had dedicated many years and an entire laboratory to his study. Not only did he study Apocalypse's agenda and machinations to determine his objective, but his mutation as well. 

Uatu had observed humanity for countless generations. Mutants were possibly the next step in mankind's evolution but had only come into being relatively recently. They were of great interest to him, complex almost beyond understanding and unique in the entire known universe. 

Humanities knowledge of mutantkind was limited and tainted with prejudices and misconceptions. Contrary to popular belief, not some, but all of Earth's mutants were able to tap into psionic energy to varying degrees. Although this was not readily apparent to any of the scientists currently studying this field, it is what they would eventually find to be true. Not only telepaths, but energy manipulators, shapechangers, -- all mutants utilized psionic energy. Some mutants were able to store this _mutant energy_ for want of a better term more proficiently, or in greater quantities. Others were able to access it faster and deliver it in greater quantities. The reasons varied and could be attributed to many factors; skill, willpower, physiological and psychological reasons. Human beings were such a complex amalgam of feedback systems: neurochemical responses driven by genes switched on in their brains determining behavior and vice versa. Even Uatu had been unable to completely categorize all the different reasons behind the manifestation of various abilities. But psionic energy was always present and used directly or employed as means to control other energy. Scott Summers absorption of solar energy and its safe use could only be accomplished and facilitated by the presence of psionic energy. The mutant Storm controlled an enormous amount of psionic energy in order to change complex factors and dynamics to bring about almost instantaneous weather changes. Yet none of these mutants registered as traditional psions. This was because psionic energy had many forms, the differences too subtle for humanity to yet recognize. The source of the energy was also extremely difficult to identify. Uatu himself had only been able to determine the source about half a century ago. 

Even among mutants, Apocalypse was an extraordinary being. His mutation, to Uatu, was a thing of wonder. Apocalypse had repeatedly stated to his _enemies_ that he had the ability to control every molecule in his body. While this was true, his basic mutant ability went far beyond just the control of his molecular structure and extended to his own atomic and even sub-atomic structure. This single facet of his numerous abilities, gave Apocalypse both tremendous offensive and defensive capabilities and access to enormous energies. Precise control of every atom that made up his being allowed Apocalypse to increase his bodies density to unparalleled levels. Strengthening and weakening molecular bonds, bonds between atoms, even bonds between sub-atomic particles; Apocalypse could make himself completely invulnerable to any weapon. His seemingly _metallic_ outer shell was nothing more than a reflection of this ability. He could change his own bodies material properties in seconds... transmutation of elements, adopting any substances atomic structure...substances so unyielding and dense that they could never exist naturally. 

Apocalypse also used his control over his own sub-atomic structure to release incomparable energies and could direct it wherever he chose. Apocalypse could literally create a controlled fission or fusion reaction just by utilizing and forfeiting a small portion of his own mass. 

Earth's scientists had only relatively recently uncovered the hidden power of the atom. They had discovered this first through physics and mathematics, and then through dangerous experimentation. 

Nuclear fission occurs when the nuclei of certain isotopes of very heavy elements, isotopes of Earth elements such as uranium and plutonium capture neutrons. The nuclei of these isotopes are just barely stable and the addition of a small amount of energy to one by an outside neutron will cause it to split promptly into two roughly equal pieces, with the release of a great deal of energy and several new neutrons. With Apocalypse's ability, he was able to do just that and produce a brief self-sustained reaction...an energy beam of devastating proportions. 

Uatu was quite certain that Apocalypse didn't even possess the most rudimentary knowledge concerning nuclear fission. But just as primitive man or even an animal need not understand electrochemical responses and nerve synapses in order to move -- Apocalypse didn't need to understand how he could break bonds between sub-atomic particles to generate and control great energies. 

Uatu had observed Apocalypse closely, utilizing the most sophisticated devices available to his race's science. No known device could mimic Apocalypse's control of sub-atomic particles or attain the level of efficiency with which he was able to deliver the energy with. Apocalypse's control concerning the strength of the beam was uncanny. He could vary the intensity and never came close to utilizing the upper limits of this ability. He normally chose to stun or incapacitate any foe, many times tempering his blows. Uatu knew that this had nothing to do with any concern for humans or mutants. He believed that Apocalypse did not wish to exhibit the level of power and control that he had attained. 

The full extent and monstrous consequences of another of Apocalypse's mutant abilities was only known to Uatu. During the X-Men's recent encounter with another delusional mutant bent on world domination, a small portion of Apocalypse's heinous acts were revealed to a certain few...the enormity of the atrocity, almost too incredible for the mutant team to believe. Through a series of seemingly unrelated events, Genesis, the adopted son of Nathan Dayspring, had stumbled across a revival crèche of Apocalypse. There he found hundreds of thousands of human beings in Celestial stasis containers that were inexplicably modified to channel their life forces into Apocalypse.2 Some of the humans had been in stasis for centuries, in a state of non-life, slowly being leached of everything that gave them life. The life-energy he absorbed had little to do with Apocalypse's immortality. It served only one purpose...to grant him more power. 

This life-energy or cosmic energy was part of the fundamental make-up of every living creature in the universe. Humanities theologians called it the soul while mathematicians used a fledgling theory named Quantum Chromodynamics unknowingly to describe it. This theory proported to explain the relationship of strong nuclear forces. But to humanities present level of understanding, the theory was mathematically intractable and makes few predictions that can be compared to experimental evidence. This was again due to the fact that humanity was incapable of measuring the existence of very short-lived particles with certain resonances, namely life-energy. 

But only very few beings contained this energy in significant quantities to allow them to manipulate matter and energy as easily as any simple creature of flesh and blood could manipulate an appendage. Both his race and the Celestials had this ability. The "World Devourer" Galactus also had this ability but existed at at even higher plane of reality, requiring him to continuously replenish his life-energy. But all these beings were ancient even by Apocalypse's standards, and had evolved as a race over millions of years, or in the case of Galactus had preexisted this universe. Somehow Apocalypse had discovered that he could somehow absorb and store this life-energy in his body...and utilize it when required.3 Over many centuries and at the expense of countless living beings, Apocalypse had greatly added to his own considerable power. 

Over centuries perhaps millions of individuals had fallen to this horrific fate because of Apocalypse's discovery. Not one, but several of these crèches existed in different locations around the globe where Apocalypse could go to replenish or add to his own energies. Over the last few centuries, Apocalypse's power had grown to such proportions that not even several of the most powerful of Earth's mutants could hope to stand against him. His ability to absorb life-energy and store it gave him his greatest advantage against any potential foe. It was this energy coupled with his mutant energy, and the energy he could liberate by breaking the atomic bonds of his own physical body, that made him unique even among mutants. 

It was Uatu's belief that Apocalypse learned of his ability to absorb life-energy from other living beings on Ship. Uatu's monitoring equipment had been unable to actually view what had transpired while Apocalypse was on the Celestial ship. While this was not unusual due to the myriad of screening and defensive devices any Celestial ship contained, Ship had been damaged and most all of its primary systems had been shut down. Uatu should have been able to observe Apocalypse on Ship but curiously could not. Another mystery. In addition, a distress signal that was immediately activated when Ship had crashed landed went unheeded by the Celestials and ceased to operate shortly after its activation. 

It had always struck Uatu as odd that in many ways he understood Apocalypse better than Apocalypse's mutant enemies. He certainly had an advantage because of his technology to observe Apocalypse for many years but he was still an alien. While human beings knew relatively little about Apocalypse's mutation, it was common belief that everything 'mechanical' was taken from the Celestials. It was believed that Apocalypse encased himself in some form of bio-organic armor -- Celestial armor fashioned by Ship. Nothing could be further from the truth. There was one thing that Uatu was certain of after observing Apocalypse for countless centuries -- Apocalypse truly believed that in a personal challenge of strength or power, there was no nobility in an unfair contest. To defeat an enemy with anything other than his own natural mutant ability or strength would be dishonorable. The use of any type of weapon, let alone _armor_ to protect himself would be an anathema to him. 

He had exhausted all but one possibility that might assuage Apocalypse from his course of action. He had already done enough to irrevocably damn him in the eyes of his brethren. He would be executed should he be found out. Uatu would be the first and only member of his race ever to suffer this fate. Although it was not shame or his death he feared...but failure. 

* * *

Uatu represented a considerable threat to his ultimate plans. He had known that any exposure to Uatu over the centuries while dangerous, had also been of inestimable value. Uatu had concluded what any fool would once they had determined he was not insane. Over many centuries, he had carefully buried lies within truths to conceal his primary objective. Uatu might have outlived his usefulness. Could he kill a Watcher? Certainly a worthy challenge of his might, or a foolhardy one. Although a part of him relished the thought of an open confrontation, guile was a more appropriate course of action. 

He smiled. I might even impress you with my cunning, Nathaniel, Apocalypse thought. And Uatu was correct...Sinister was indeed a formidable adversary. Over the last two centuries Sinister had attempted to kill him several times and had come rather close to succeeding. He had almost chosen too well he mused. Even now an apparatus that was attuned to Sinister's bio-signature indicated that he had just departed Genosha. 

"You see _Highborn,_ Sinister seeks to recruit Magneto to his cause," Apocalypse rumbled. "No doubt he will be successful. Magnus has great power but is weak in other ways. Sinister will have found a way to make him do his bidding." 

"Together, they could present a formidable opposition, Master." The deference was always clear and distinct whenever Ozymandias addressed Apocalypse. 

"Indeed. Except for the fact that neither party has been entirely truthful with the other. This will be merely an alliance of convenience. Eventually, Magnus will no doubt attempt to kill Sinister for how shall I say -- both present and past transgressions. If I could afford the luxury, it might be interesting to let just that play out. While Sinister's apparent attempt to rally mutant opposition against me is no more than a feint. Even Xavier's brood are not foolish enough to blindly trust him. They have no idea of his true plans...but then again, neither do I," Apocalypse said sounding mildly pleased. "We shall see if I am up to the challenge he will undoubtedly pose." 

"Sinister has been the first true test of my fitness to survive in many centuries. He believes I am a threat to his vision for mutantkind, that our goals conflict and will not rest until I am dead. Would my death please you Ozymandias?" Apocalypse asked looking down from his throne, his attention suddenly and completely directed at Ozymandias. 

"I..." Even after thousands of years, Ozymandias wilted under the direct gaze of his master. 

"You need not contemplate such an occurrence," Apocalypse quietly thundered fading back into the shadows..."ever." 

* * *

**References;**

[1]X-Force #37  


[2]Wolverine #100 - Did anyone but me wonder where these people came from and why the X-Men did nothing to help them?  


[3]X-Factor #67 - Apocalypse's ability to drain life essences first revealed. 

* * *


	5. Chapter 4

* * *

A TEST OF POWER

** BY DR**

Chapter 4

Buried deep within the heart of every conflict  
lies a territory known as common ground...  
but how do we summon the courage to seek out its borders?  


OL  
1997

Rogue had been on the roof of the apartment building overlooking the restaurant for over an hour. Only a single patron had entered the upscale Italian eatery that was quite common in this part of Manhattan. The remains of a day old blizzard still decorated the sidewalks and streets discouraging even the hardiest of the New York City masses. The white snow was already dulled and sullied by the mixture of dirt and salt leaving a slushy, ugly brown residue. Rogue had always preferred the view of the city from the air, especially at night. The myriad of lights from buildings, street lamps and cars, made the city look like a translucent sea of precious jewels, masking the muck that was part of the underbelly of any large city. Rogue couldn't help but be disappointed whenever she actually set down on the city streets and her wistful illusion was dispelled. 

She arrived early to conduct some clandestine surveillance in order to get a feel for the surrounding area. Despite her enhanced strength and invulnerability, Rogue always liked to account for the number ways in and out of the any new location. Even though her affiliation with the X-Men exposed her to danger on a daily basis, she strangely enough felt an extra degree of caution was required whenever she might involve herself in her mother's affairs. 

Mystique was always cryptic at best, but when she unexpectedly telephoned and insisted that they meet immediately and at such a public location, Rogue was a bit mystified. She became particularly concerned because her mother had actually sounded a bit scared -- not cautious or paranoid -- her usual state of mind, but scared. 

It was three minutes before nine, and Rogue was satisfied that further surveillance would not glean anymore information. She gently set down in a dark alleyway hidden from view. She walked the remaining distance to the restaurant entrance, careful to stay in the shadows and out of the lamplight. 

She was greeted at the doorway by the Maitre Dee, an elderly gentleman with a slight Italian accent -- Northern Italian and quite possibly from the province of Piemonte if Rogue was not mistaken. Although Rogue had never left the country in her formative years, her mother was very well traveled and was able to school her, among other things, in different modes of speech and dialects used in various countries around the world. She had always had a very sensitive and discerning ear, another minor talent that her mother recognized and was able to cultivate. He helped her off with her coat, handing it off to another employee of the restaurant and told her that Ms. Capriotti was expecting her. 

Mystique most assuredly had given her description to the Maitre Dee and had already informed Rogue over the secure phone line of the alias that she would be using. He led her through a maze of tables of the moderately lit restaurant; a quiet hum of conversation could be heard throughout the dining area. The tables were adequately spaced apart which would make it extremely difficult to hear the conversation of an adjoining table. The restaurant was sparsely populated...about at twenty-five percent capacity, which suited Rogue just fine. 

Rogue's strategic assessment of her surroundings was second nature to her. She did not have to make a conscious effort to perform a clinical evaluation of her environment. Her mother's training was so ingrained that it would be difficult for her to behave any differently. Rogue had often wondered whether this was a good or bad thing. 

"Ms. Capriotti, your guest has arrived," the Maitre Dee said as he pulled out a chair for Rogue. 

"Thank you Enzo." 

"Your waiter will be by momentarily Signora," Enzo said, inclining his head slightly in Mystique's direction, excusing himself. 

Rogue smiled inwardly. Her mother's table was located in the back corner of the restaurant away from any windows. This gave her a birds eye view of the entire dining area while her own seat was partially obscured by some potted trees making her very difficult to see. 

Mystique had taken on the appearance of a fortyish, slim, brown haired woman, completely non-descript and physically unremarkable in any way. But Rogue could always recognize her mother by her eyes, not by the shape or color -- those things Mystique could easily alter as well. Her mother's eyes always gave off this kind of crazed intensity that was truly unique -- to her at least. The eyes of a fanatic maybe -- no it wasn't quite that. She had a respectable amount of experience with _that_ type, especially among the mutant community. Her eyes exhaled desperation. That was the only way Rogue could think of to describe it. 

"Hello Momma. Ah see ya haven't outgrown all the cloak and dagger stuff," Rogue said quietly and with a gentle smile. 

"I _suppose_ the world is warm and safe place and mutants are now welcomed with open arms," Mystique whispered sharply. 

"Ahright Momma, Ah see somethin' outta the ordinary got ya spooked. Ah'm all ears." Rogue leaned forward letting her mother know that she had her complete attention. 

"Things...things are beginning to happen. I've tried to prepare for them -- tried to prepare you. I want you to gather all your belongings and accompany me to a special safehouse," Mystique said abruptly. 

"Momma," Rogue interrupted, a look of bewilderment on her face. "What are ya talkin' about?" Her mother could be ice-cold in life threatening situations but was also prone to seemingly impulsive behavior. This behavior though...Rogue had never seen her mother act in this fashion. She was starting to feel the effects of her mother's fear and becoming scared herself. 

"The FOH, Bastion, Graydon's death, Genosha...they're all precursors of things to come. Irene had hinted at certain things, even _she_ was unsure...said she couldn't see anything clearly that involved _him_, and didn't want to. I don't want you involved," Mystique said with a sudden intensity. I don't want you taking sides, even with the X-men." 

"Takin' sides...takin' sides against who?" Rogue asked. 

Mystique hesitated and then said, "Apocalypse," in a hushed tone. 

At the mention of Apocalypse's name, a partial understanding of her mother's fear became clear. He was a mutant monster, a mysterious and ancient being, completely divorced from humanity and from his own humanity. But the X-Men had dealt with Apocalypse before and would deal with him again if necessary. The question of why her mother would have such a personal fear of Apocalypse was something Rogue was almost too afraid to find out. 

Mystique continued and sounded a little more like her usual self. "He isn't an enemy that can be dealt with in a conventional sense. He can't be coerced, blackmailed, threatened, or even seduced. There isn't even a way to find him. He's visited me...several times over the years." 

"What?" Rogue asked stunned. "Ya never told me any o' this Momma." 

Mystique ignored her daughter's surprise. "The first time was many years ago, when I had initially established 'The Brotherhood'." 

Both Rogue and Mystique were completely startled when a tall, middle-aged man, was standing right next to their table, a friendly expression on a handsome face. The man was impeccably dressed, well groomed and manicured, and had an air of aristocracy about him. Neither had seen or heard his approach, which was very unusual. Rogue had always been an extremely difficult person to catch off guard...her mother, next to impossible. 

"May I join you?" the large man said in a deep clear voice, motioning toward one the empty seats. 

Surprisingly, her mother graced the gentleman with a smile reaching for the napkin on her lap and said, "by all means, please sit down." 

As he sat, Mystique brought up the napkin from under the table in a graceful and fluid motion. Rogue could barely make out the concealed muzzle of a very unconventional firearm. It appeared to be some form of energy weapon. 

"Who are you? Why are here? And you better come up with a reason why I shouldn't use this to cut you in half, because I can't," Mystique hissed sharply, but maintained an extremely pleasant expression on her face. 

The gentleman answered with an equally pleasant expression on his face, completely nonplused by Mystique's words. 

"Mr. Sinister, to speak with your daughter, and you might kill some innocent people in the process," the man said matter-of-factly. His expression remained unchanged except that the shoulders of the finely tailored jacket morphed into multiple shiny blue metallic strips of cloth that fluttered in the air like the tail of a kite. They melded back into the jacket with no sign that they were ever there. This was followed by the terrifyingly familiar red diamond, which quickly flashed across his forehead and then disappeared, confirming the identity of their dinner _guest._

_What is Sinister doing here and what the hell does he want with me?_ Rogue thought. No one on the team even knows I'm here. There was no room to maneuver and too many innocent people close by. She had to do her best to avoid a confrontation. She consciously moved away from him, clenching her fists, and poised for anything he might try. 

Mystique leaned across the table and moved the napkin under his chin as if she was playfully wiping a small crumb from his mouth. "Unless there are some stargazers on the roof, no _innocents_ will get hurt," Mystique said mockingly. "I could cut your head in two," she added, as she moved the barrel underneath his chin. 

Sinister said nothing, and gave no indication that he was going to move. Rogue broke the silence, knowing that if this escalated people would definitely be hurt and most likely killed. 

"Momma, let's hear what this rattlesnake has ta say," Rogue said, putting her gloved hand on her mother's gently pushing the gun away from Sinister. As much as Ah'd like ta see his dead carcass sprawled on the pavement, ah got a lotta questions foh this boy," she said through clenched teeth. 

"I imagine you would. I will do my utmost to answer all of them. And Raven, don't ever threaten me," Sinister said as he leaned forward, an expression of disturbing scrutiny across his face. "Do not delude yourself into believing that toy you appropriated from some government organization or from Forge himself could harm me. And if you believe that the psi-screening device you are wearing will offer some measure of protection against me, you are sadly mistaken. The trinket you have on your person is nothing more than a poor imitation based on my design. However beautiful your natural appearance is, I imagine that you would find it quite a hindrance to go about your usual _business_ should I decide to make your appearance permanent," Sinister said coldly. 

Mystique was unusually quiet and seemed to be measuring Sinister's words. Rogue believed that her mother knew that Sinister was not the bluffing type and could deliver on all his threats. She did not like to see her mother threatened -- especially when the threat exhibited one of her rare vulnerabilities. Rogue knew that Sinister was aware of people's fears and vulnerabilities and had no qualms about exploiting them...an enjoyable specialty of his she thought disgustedly. She also knew that her mother was most dangerous when she felt threatened. This situation could and would degrade very quickly unless she acted. 

"Ya said ya came here ta talk ta me, so talk," Rogue said, as she began to casually remove one of her gloves from her hands, which were hidden from view underneath the table. 

"Since you believe my civility is a pretense, a direct approach may be more effective to convince you of the futility of what you contemplate." Sinister suddenly reached under the table and grasped Rogue's bare wrist. A feeling of intense malaise swept over her, overwhelming her senses. "Need I remind you Rogue that _that_ course of action was not effective the first time around.(1) You will find it a much more disturbing experience should you be foolish enough to try it again," Sinister said menacingly. "This shall not be a contest of power or will -- because there _is_ no contest. You have touched the mind of Sinister my dear. Since then, we have maintained a bit of, how shall I say, psychic rapport. Your mutant powers are an open book to me, to be utilized or shut down as I see fit." Sinister released Rogue's wrist as quickly as he had grabbed it. 

Mystique had her weapon aimed at Sinister again, her hand rock steady. She would have fired immediately but was unsure of the effect it might have on Rogue while she was in contact with Sinister. Her daughter's eyes cleared and she seemed to recover completely. "This is what I wanted to warn you about. Two monsters who for centuries, want to kill one another. One a complete madman, the other, a coward, who wants others to do the fighting for him. Irene had said that the fight between these two could destroy most of the planet, and everyone on it." 

"I'm impressed Raven -- so impressed in fact, that there might possibly be a position available on my team of Marauders for such a sagacious individual. And if you wish to trade barbs, I will indulge you for a moment." Sinister turned to Rogue ignoring the presence of the weapon. 

"You see Rogue, your mother has not exactly been honest with you. In her true form, she appears to be a vital and attractive young woman in her mid twenties. She has told you and others that her mutant abilities ...Sinister paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

"Exactly what did I extract from Victor's mind? Ah yes, let me quote your mother. 'My morphing powers continually revitalize my body cells and DNA memory. That's why I can look just like I did all those years ago.' (2) What a wonderfully scientific explanation for your youthful appearance," Sinister said with mellifluous tones. "But that is wholly inadequate to describe your virtual immortality." Sinister glanced in Mystique's direction. "No my dear, your visits from Apocalypse were a bit more involved, were they not? 

Mystique's trigger finger began to tighten, her expression no longer hiding her emotions but openly murderous. 

Sinister continued and seemed to enjoy provoking Mystique. "I am truly conscience-stricken to divulge this Rogue. First you find that your nefarious beau is involved with the likes of me. Now I tell you that your mother has dealings with Apocalypse. You must be wondering what's next? Perhaps my next revelation will uncover the torrid relationship between Destiny and Victor Von Doom?" Sinister said with a malicious smile on his face. 

"You do a good job of pressing everyone's buttons, you slimy son of a bitch," Mystique said, open hate in her voice. Mystique turned to Rogue, an angry expression on her face. "What he didn't tell you was that I was forced and had no choice in the matter." 

Mystique continued. "It was many years ago, when we operated out of a large warehouse, by the docks...same area as what's now the South Street Seaport. Money was a little tighter back then. I was doing some creative accounting, hiding and funneling money into legitimate businesses. The rest of the team was relaxing, watching some T.V. in another room, the set blaring as usual. I had told them to keep the door closed so I wouldn't be disturbed." 

Rogue thought it was very characteristic of her mother to remember such a trivial thing. She had always had tremendous recall of even the minutest detail. But she knew her mother was stalling and was filled with apprehension at what her mother might try. For the moment, Sinister strangely enough seemed content to listen. 

"I heard a rush of air and was momentarily blinded by a bright flash of light. Standing ten feet in front of me, what was an empty space a second ago, was an enormous, -- what I thought initially was a armored man or robot of some sort. It or he, was about eight feet tall and as wide as a small car. I can't actually tell you why but I sensed tremendous power from this thing and not from just its physical appearance. It gazed down at me, its movements strange, not mechanical but not human either. It spoke to me in a voice saturated with authority and I immediately knew that this was not the voice of a robot...this _thing_ was alive...and that made it all the more terrible. The voice was impossibly deep, and it shook the iron latticework that made up the structure of the warehouse. He called me by my first name." 

"Hello Raven. I am called Apocalypse." 

"I felt like he was staring right into my eyes, but he had no eyes that I could distinguish. His eye sockets exuded a cold luminous white light, and looking into them added to the pervasive feeling of power...ancient power. He managed to evoke something I hadn't felt in many years -- fear. I'm not talking about the type of fear or apprehension you feel because of a particularly dangerous mission. I am talking about," Mystique paused, possibly because she did want to make this admission in front of Sinister or maybe even Rogue for that matter. "I am talking about little girl scared -- something primal and basic. I was able to shake off the feeling because I could not believe that this thing...after the myriad of hidden lives, multiple identities I had assumed and built...this thing knew my real name and how to find me." 

"I reached for a laser rifle, an early prototype of the plasma rifle. I had _appropriated_ it from a group of scientists working for the government. It was large and not very mobile but cutting edge technology for the time. It was attached to a stationary and rather cumbersome power source, but it packed a hell of a punch. The laser could cut through three inches of tank armor in just a few seconds. With the press of a button, I alerted the others that there was trouble and needed help. 

Apocalypse didn't move as I stood and pointed the weapon at him. I fired at point blank range hitting him just below his chest. There was no effect. I fired again keeping the trigger depressed with the laser trained on the same spot. I kept firing until I had depleted the entire laser's energy and it ceased to function. The metal --what I thought was metal of his armor showed no signs that the laser had even touched him." 

"Just then the Blob crashed through the door, " Mystique continued. "Apocalypse ignored that the Blob had entered the room and didn't turn in his direction." 

"You have nothing to fear from me," Apocalypse said still looking at Mystique. 

"You're damn straight she doesn't," the Blob said as he lumbered forward. "Who is this clown?" He advanced but paused momentarily next to a piece of the warehouse's support structure, to take a good look at Apocalypse. "And I thought I was ugly," he chuckled as he his meaty hands grabbed and tore an enormous steel I-beam from its moorings, screaming metal, bolts and cement spraying in all directions. Using the beam as a baseball bat, he swung the enormous cantilever at Apocalypse. 

"You should refrain from any unnecessary words boy, and choose your opponents more wisely." Apocalypse's arm lengthened and thickened while his hand grew to incredible proportions. He met the beam, a deafening ring of metal on metal. 

Mystique continued. "The beam was incredibly torn from Fred's hands and flew thirty feet to the cement floor with a gigantic clang. I remember the dumbfounded expression on Fred's face. He looked disbelievingly into his empty hands and then glanced up in fear, as Apocalypse's huge hand grew larger still and closed over his entire body. Two fingers, with the diameter of car tires, came down on left and right side of his head crushing down on his shoulders. The remaining fingers and thumb wrapped around the rest of Fred's body, painfully sinking into the enormous roles of flesh, making even the Blob look small and pitifully vulnerable. I could not believe that he was held in one hand, struggling feebly to free himself. Then, something I'd thought I would never see. Apocalypse lifted Fred...the Blob, off the ground...at the end of a twenty-foot long arm with no apparent effort at all. Apocalypse's hand changed color, becoming translucent, emitting a nimbus of bright white energy...and Fred screamed. 

"I could smell burnt flesh," Mystique went on more slowly. "Apocalypse then casually tossed Fred's smoking body to the ground. Fred was unconscious, and did not move. I have never to this day seen anyone do this to the Blob. And incredibly, Apocalypse had never moved. His feet -- or boots were in the exact same place. I then noticed that the others had come out of the room, including Destiny. I don't know how long they had been there or how much they had seen, but judging by the expressions on their faces, I knew they had seen enough." 

Apocalypse turned and addressed Destiny. "Tell her seer," he rumbled. 

A cloud of pain passed over Destiny's face and her hands clutched at her temples. "Do not attempt to overcome him. All of your efforts will fail...and he will kill everyone," she gasped and fell to her knees. 

Apocalypse turned back to Mystique. "I am here to bestow a great gift upon you." Apocalypse touched his belt and there was another flash of light. A clear cylindrical canister appeared covered with strange unintelligible markings. "You have proven yourself worthy of survival. This alien device will extend your life span indefinitely." The canister opened without a sound. "You will place yourself into the device now." Apocalypse's tone was such that his directions could not possibly be questioned. 

"I naturally hesitated," Mystique said. Apocalypse's hand began to glow again and he glanced at Destiny and the others. His intention was obvious." 

"Do as he says Raven. He speaks the truth and no harm will come of it. The purpose of the device is exactly as he claims," Destiny said. 

"Irene still seemed to be in a great deal of pain. She was to tell me later that to even glimpse into an event surrounding Apocalypse or his future was almost impossible, and caused excruciating pain." 

"I asked him why he felt I was deserving of such a gift, stalling despite what Irene had said. He didn't answer but instead reached for me with his other hand, which grew as it came closer to me. I didn't move. 

I expected his touch to be cold but was mistaken -- it was hot, uncomfortably so. His hand wrapped itself around my body and gently placed me into the strange device. The container closed immediately. I could see through the material but it was so clear that I was not sure that it was there. I placed my hands on what I thought was glass but discovered it was an energy field of some sort. I looked up to see Apocalypse's terrifying face staring down impassively and for a moment, I felt a surge of panic to escape." 

"The procedure will last approximately one hour...I am told it is quite painful," Apocalypse said indifferently. The device will automatically open once it has fulfilled its function. You will then be free to return to your affairs. I give you this gift freely and only require that you continue to do as you always have done...survive by any means possible." 

"There was another flash of light and he was gone. True to his word at the end of an hour and after some exquisite pain, I was free," Mystique shuddered. "The device disappeared immediately after. Since that day, I have not been sick nor have I aged a day," Mystique concluded. 

"Momma, ah don't know why you never told me this before. But you said that he visited you several times," Rogue said inquisitively. 

"What a heart-wrenching story, although surprisingly the truth," Sinister interrupted before Mystique could answer. "You must think I am quite a fool to believe that you would relate this entire story in my presence, only to satisfy your daughter's curiosity and feelings." Sinister chuckled. "Stalling for time afforded you nothing -- no succor is available. Your hired help were dead before I arrived at your table -- interesting choice though, human mercenaries. I assume they were expendable," Sinister said offhandedly. 

Mystique stood abruptly and moved away from Sinister to get some breathing room. "Once I knew I was dealing with the likes of you, I knew that the mercs would be useless, but might serve as a distraction. But I _did_ need the extra time to charge this weapon to full capacity," Mystique said pointing the gun at Sinister. "This weapon has an interesting feature. It has a setting that allows the entire energy stores to be delivered in a single shot. I was told this setting is supposed to be quite effective, even against the most powerful mutants. Die you bastard." 

"Momma no!" Rogue yelled as she lunged for her mother. White-hot pain seared through Rogue's head, paralyzing her in mid leap as she fell back into her chair. 

Mystique fired, a blinding red beam exploded out of the weapon. She maintained firing long enough to cut Sinister from his midsection all the way up to his head, cleaving him in half. Not a drop of blood spilled out from the rupture and Mystique couldn't make out anything that even resembled an internal organ. There wasn't an internal anything. A thick gray ichor coated both sides of the split and Mystique believed that this gelatinous substance was what comprised Sinister's entire form. The beam also passed through chairs, tables, walls, and four human beings...three in the restaurant and one passerby across the street, killing them all instantly. Mystique took her finger off the trigger after the gun's energy was exhausted. 

Mystique rushed to her daughter's side as people screamed and stampeded out of the restaurant and into the street. "Rogue, are you alright?" Mystique cradled her daughter's head in her arms but was still careful to avoid any skin-to-skin contact. 

Rogue slowly regained her senses stirring sluggishly at first; able to turn her head enough to witness the carnage her mother's actions had wrought. A soft moan escaped her lips. "Momma," Rogue's anguished feelings clear in that one word. 

"Would you prefer if you and I were lying in a pool of blood instead," Mystique said without a trace of remorse in her voice. 

Mystique and Rogue both heard a slurping sound, almost as if a thick syrupy substance was being sucked through a thin straw. They simultaneously turned to see Mr. Sinister's body draw together and mend into his familiar attire and bloodless cast. 

"An excellent yet futile roll of the dice Raven. You are to be commended." Sinister stood and casually tossed the table aside, dishes and glasses shattering on the floor. His arm shot across the distance that separated them, a chilling smile on his face. His fingers sunk painfully into the soft flesh of her chin and neck, and lifted her off the ground. He turned her head from side to side as if he were examining a piece of art he might consider purchasing. A thick expensive looking necklace suddenly snapped apart revealing the hidden psi-screening circuitry inside. 

Rogue had been struggling in vain to get to her feet but could not get her legs to work properly. After what seemed like an eternity, Rogue could hear blaring sirens that signaled the arrival of the police. Not that they could stop Sinister, but they might distract him long enough for her to regain full use of her faculties. Although Rogue had no idea what _she_ could do against Sinister as well. But she had to do something to help her mother. She then heard shouts and multiple gunshots ring out from outside the restaurant. 

Sinister turned to Rogue, a dour expression on his face. "You will shortly regain full use of all your abilities. The local authorities will be sufficiently preoccupied by my Marauders to allow us to conclude our business." 

Mystique hung limply in Sinister's grasp refusing to cry out despite the pain she was in. She would not give him the satisfaction of struggling, which she knew would do nothing to free her. Nor would she let him see the fear she felt for both herself and her daughter because they were completely at Sinister's mercy. 

Sinister's expression hardened as he brought Mystique's face within a few inches of his own, his eyes and mind boring into hers. He located a specific sphere of her brain -- the region of the brain he knew better than any person on the planet -- the area that controlled mutant powers. 

"It is such a simple thing really," Sinister said coldly, as he none too gently dropped Mystique back into a chair -- "to take control of another mutants powers and command them as your own." Mystique morphed into her natural form, except open lesions and festering sores began to appear all over her blue hued skin. 

Mystique could see her daughter's horrified expression, which hurt her more than the open wounds that now covered her entire body. 

"This," Sinister gestured at Mystique and spoke to Rogue, -- "is unnecessary. I have little enough patience for your patriarch and his multitude X-heroes, let alone the forbearance to tolerate the pathological behavior of your mother. To say she is capable is an understatement. But I do not admire her panache, as does Apocalypse. I also take umbrage that someone guilty of the crimes she's committed, has the impudence to call me a monster. Your mother threw her infant son Kurt, over a waterfall to preserve her own skin. She abandoned her other son Graydon after his twelfth birthday when she discovered he was not a mutant." Sinister turned to Mystique. "Coupling with Victor Creed, Raven?" Sinister's brow furrowed and shook his head with mock disapproval. "Such maternal instincts and such eclectic tastes in partners." 

Mystique rasped an explicative. 

"A lifetime of terrorism, extortion, theft, murder, -- most recently; pummeling to death a United States Air Force General, by your own hands no less."(3) Sinister smiled. "International spy Leni Zauber, Billionaire B. Byron Biggs, or fashion model Ronnie Lake(4)...window dressing, covering the same odious mind. 

"Stop," Rogue heard herself plead. "You've made yoh point. Ya know all about mah Momma and can hurt her in a hundred different ways. Give her back control o' her powers...please." 

"As you wish," Sinister said, remarkably acquiescing immediately. I will though, temporarily deny her access to the speech center of her brain. That will allow us I trust," Sinister stared menacingly at Mystique, -- "to converse unimpeded." 

Mystique glared at Sinister as her appearance returned to its healthy cast. 

_I guess that's something,_ Rogue thought. They weren't that much worse off than when they started. She had no idea where to go from here except maybe find out what it was that Sinister wanted. 

"What could you possibly want from me?" Rogue said, both anger and torment clear in her voice. "I'm not a Summers'. Ah thought ya got off messin' with Scott, Jean, or Cable,...an' maybe Gambit," Rogue added harshly. 

"No, no my dear," Sinister said, his expression almost convincingly earnest. _You_ Rogue, have been the primary focus of my work with mutants. Despite the brilliance of both Xavier and McCoy, both have rather parochial perspectives, and if I may, pedestrian scientific acumen compared to me. They are blind to what they have in you and have been stymied by what they perceive is a psychological problem." 

"Ain't you the cat's meow," Rogue spit out. "Focus of yoh work, an' perceived as a problem?' Rogue said disbelievingly. "Ah can't even begin ta control mah powers. An' you never had me as one o' yoh...lab rats." Rogue whispered the last two words, her expression, full of uncertainty, and fear. 

"The laboratory is an abhorrent place for the proper development of mutant powers. For the most part, I allowed your powers to flourish on their own. I only had to sit back and observe. That is not to say that I didn't throw in an occasional variable into the mix." 

"When your bio-signature first registered on my mutant detection device, it was most intriguing. But even I was unprepared for what I was to find. I traveled to Caldecott County myself, to see what new offering nature had bestowed upon the world." 

Rogue had to consciously keep the horrified expression off her face. The thought of Sinister studying her and possibly playing an active role in her life, especially without her knowledge was almost too terrifying to contemplate. 

Sinister continued. "Evolution and adaptation are synonymous, and who pray tell is more adaptable than you? Human genetics, mutant genetics, alien genetics...your mutant borne capabilities accommodate them all. Early on in your life, I examined and recorded your baseline genome. Then with the implantation of an innocuous and simple device, I was able to monitor even the most diminutive changes in your genetic make-up during and after each absorption episode. For instance, has any of your more scientifically adept teammates studied what it was that changed after you touched Carol Danvers or the Asgardian Thor for that matter? (5) I've made it part of my life study. Was it the number of genes, the type, the arrangement...what power or energy accompanied the transfer? From you alone Rogue, a single template for seemingly any mutant power, I learned almost everything just by simple comparison. And as far as your lack of control, it has little to do with any shortcoming on your part." 

"Now ah know yoh lyin'," Rogue said uncertainly. "Professor Xavier, Hank, even mah Momma, believe it is a mental problem"...her voice dropped to a whisper. "They think mah biological parents -- how ah was treated, is the cause of mah lack of control. An' you mean ta tell me that in all the time Ah was with the X-Men...all the times Hank examined me, he never found this little bug ya supposedly put in me." 

"My dear, I invented the techno-organic virus over half a century before Henry McCoy took his first steps.(6) The device mimics your own cellular structure and could not be distinguished from your own tissue by anyone but me. And as far as the implied abuse," Sinister waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "Ah yes, the mantra of every modern mental health professional. The root of all evil is child abuse, begetting child abuse. A sadistic authoritarian parent, an inciting event...all very common themes to explain an adults behavior in the present. But fortunately for you, that was never the case." Sinister did not deign to elaborate further on that subject. 

"I shall explain your perceived problem -- or why your power seems uncontrollable as simply as possible. The simplification of my explanation is by no means a reflection of your own intelligence. 

"That's mighty considerate of ya," Rogue said sarcastically. 

"Thank you, "Sinister answered equally sardonic, accepting the false praise. "Have you ever seen examples of Kirlian photography?" 

Yeah, Ah've seen it. That's where ya can see that strange light come off ya skin...an aura. 

"Yes, a photographic process that involves the use of electrostatic phenomena of certain objects. That is exactly the visual example that I am trying to impart. Now imagine that your astral self, your soul if you will, is slightly out of phase with your physical body. While other mutants and human beings souls are juxtaposed with their physical bodies; occupying the same space at the same time, yours simply does not. This disassociation between your corporeal and spiritual components is an undesirable state, incomplete. This disparity between body and soul must seek a means to rectify this imbalance...an integration of sorts. Physically touching another person in your case actually brings you into contact with another person's soul. In order to resolve your own internal division, your body attempts to accommodate this new astral presence, by rearranging your own genetic structure to match whoever you are in contact with, making it essentially as simple as it sounds, more comfortable by creating a familiar or identical environment. Memories, experiences, and behavior are absorbed to do the same. The end product is a temporary or permanent amalgam." 

"But what about when others were able to control mah powers? The Professor, Carol..." 

"A legitimate question," Sinister returned. "The contact by another mind or an astral presence either satisfies, or deceives your body into believing that it is fully integrated. This allows you physical contact without the usual side effects." 

"An' if I were ta believe ya, the Professor, Hank an' Moira don't know nothin' about me being...'out o' phase'?" Rogue asked. 

"Professor Xavier is the preeminent telepath of our time, but even in his astral form, would not be able to detect your dichotomy. Only the possession and manipulation alien technology allows me to observe this condition." 

"An' Ah suppose ya could help me with mah condition?" Rogue asked, not sounding terribly confident. 

"Easily," Sinister said, assuredly. 

"An' foh mah own edification, all the stuff with Cable...nothin' but a trick?" Rogue said disbelievingly. 

"No, not entirely. He has been most certainly useful but is just a means to a particular end. I never intended for him to fight Apocalypse directly. The Askani nonsense that he became embroiled in has been and still is a most useful feint in my favor. But even you must admit, I do have a reputation for being a bit of a clever fellow. Any weapon I might develop would not be so inherently obvious. And I certainly would not put all my eggs in one basket," Sinister said, an expression of disdain on his face. 

"An' what you did ta me a little while ago -- ya burned some info inta mah head," an expression of concentration crossed Rogue's face. "Ya want mah help against Apocalypse." 

"Yes," Sinister answered. "The exact plans I've placed in your mind will slowly become apparent to you over the next hour or so." 

"An if Ah don't help you? What're ya gonna do, threaten mah mother again?" Rogue said, the resignation in her voice already betraying her answer. 

"Search your mind Rogue. I won't have to," Sinister said with certain finality. A tesseract opened and he was gone. 

"You're not gullible enough to believe him and will not help him," Mystique commanded, regaining her power of speech. "I'll find a way to protect you and myself." 

"It's got nothin' ta do with what Ah believe or you Momma," Rogue said submissively. "He's got Remy Momma, he's got Remy." 

* * *

References; 

[1]X-Factor #39  


[2]Sabertooth - Death Hunt #3  


[3]X-Men Unlimited #4 

[4]X-Men #93 

[5]Avengers Annual #10 

[6]Cable 1999 Annual 

* * *


	6. Chapter 5

* * *

A TEST OF POWER

**BY DR**

Chapter 5

It is our nature to fear a dark purpose  
in that which we do not understand, but  
true evil may lie more in ignorance than in suspicion.  
  


~OL  
_1998_

The tesseract doorway opened, and Mr. Sinister stepped from the pocket dimension into the familiarity of his innermost sanctum -- his personal laboratory. He had spent the greater portion of the last fifty years sequestered in this cold and sterile place. If he were to call any place home, he presumed that it would be the here. 

This facility was one of three such facilities built by the United States Government during the Cold War to house Department of Defense scientists in case of a nuclear exchange with a hostile nation. The complex was large enough to accommodate a hundred scientists whose specialized talents warranted that their lives be spared the fate of the rest of humanity. Located in a remote region of the Appalachian Mountain range and under four hundred feet of solid rock, the facility was built to withstand anything but a direct hit from a nuclear warhead. With the modifications that Sinister had incorporated, even that could not penetrate his defenses. His laboratory fortress was impregnable. 

Sinister had _annexed_ the nuclear shelter for his own use just after its completion. Careful planning went into surreptitiously expunging all financial and physical evidence of its existence. Even greater exactitude was required to telepathically erase any memory of shelter's existence from all of the people involved in its fabrication. A tedious and time consuming task, yet compared to the building of a facility of similar proportions, hardly any trouble at all. While money and technology presented no impediment to a person with his resources, a construction project of this scale would certainly attract some attention. Sinister had long ago settled on this method to _acquire_ both military and commercial bases to spread and secure his various operations around the globe. 

Information had always been the cornerstone of Sinister's power base. He owed the efficacy of his data gathering in no small measure to Apocalypse. It was at Apocalypse's behest almost a century ago that he developed the techno-organic virus. The foundation of practically all of his devices and tools was based on organic technology and stemmed from his creation of the virus. When computer science was in its infancy, Sinister's pathogen was placed at the first production facilities, infecting the actual hardware. With the advent of an interconnected global network, Sinister's virulence spread like history's worst plagues, except the host never exhibited any symptoms to betray the viruses' existence. The virus was built to replicate and evolve, much like its naturally occurring template. It could mimic its environment, whether they were mechanical constructs or living beings because the virus was a congruous amalgam of both. Sinister's eyes and ears were everywhere; no secrets could be kept from him. No matter how brilliant individual, corporate, or military safeguards were devised to be, it was of little consequence. Sinister's virulence was already insidiously entrenched for decades, its capricious nature remodeling itself to match its surroundings. His pet microbes reported back to its creator with complete anonymity and were behind much of his seemingly miraculous knowledge of people and their supposed secrets. 

Sinister sat down in his control chair, which immediately activated a probe that burrowed into his hand establishing a direct neuro-link and imparted a wealth of select information into his mind. He noted with mild amusement that McCoy and Drake had been busy during his time away, exploring every accessible inch of his home. A small smile formed on his face. He would quickly review the rest of the data and then join them. 

* * *

"You almost sound like you admire the guy, Hank." 

"I admire what he has accomplished, Bobby, but I certainly do not condone his methods. Look around you," Hank said with the wonder of a small child. "The technology before you is extraordinary. Organic based technology that is centuries ahead of anything we've seen." 

"I don't get it. I don't see you making such a big deal about the fancy Shi'ar tech we have. Why the big deal about all this freaky looking stuff?" Bobby asked. 

"Not to demean the accomplishments of our Shi'ar friends, but what you see here before you are the achievements of a single man, not the attainments of an entire race...a race much older than mankind. What Sinister created here is the culmination of his own solitary genius." 

"You will embarrass me with any further accolades," Sinister's deep voice echoed in the large room. 

Both Bobby and Hank jumped. "You might try clearing your throat or something before you walk in a room -- especially looking like you do," Bobby added. 

"I'll consider it, Drake," Sinister said tersely. "I trust your accommodations are to your liking. I am not used to having guests." 

"I wonder why," Bobby muttered. 

"Your laboratory facilities are nothing short of astounding," Henry interjected. "I could lose myself for years just studying some of the technology you've been gracious enough to allow us access to." 

"You are free to indulge your curiosity for as long as you wish. I would welcome the company of such an accomplished researcher," Sinister said. 

Henry raised a cynical eyebrow. "Please forgive my temerity, but I am a bit skeptical at your sudden desire for companionship. While I admit to knowing very little of substance about you, your insular nature is common knowledge." 

"Perhaps it is time for a change," Sinister said sounding reflective. 

"You expect me to believe that you've had a sudden crisis of conscience," Henry said incredulously. "Dangling all this wondrous technology in front of me, even with my gluttonous appetite, does not sufficiently cloud my reasoning skills. Isn't this just another perfunctory fallacious statement that is part of another guileful plan?" 

"Skepticism, 'the mark and even the pose of an educated mind'," Sinister said. 

"John Dewey," Henry quickly supplied. 

Sinister nodded in acknowledgement. "But I detect the animosity that underscores your tenor. Please enlighten me on its source." 

Henry's lips curled with disgust. "Is this some elaborate game to you? Is this how immortals amuse themselves to circumvent boredom?" he continued angrily. "I have been known for my naiveté, but I refuse to believe that a sane mind is capable of such accomplishment, -- the study and devotion necessary to attain all of this," Henry gestured around him, suddenly at a loss for words. 

"I assure you, this is no game," Sinister said seriously. 

"Then what is all this?!" Henry gesticulated furiously. "The technology I see before me could benefit mankind in an infinite number of ways. The cloning tanks Bobby and I observed -- an inexhaustible supply of organs -- the donor and recipient are one and the same -- zero probability of rejection. Paraplegics instantly cured with either replacement limbs or depending on the nature of the injury, regeneration of existing nerve cells." 

"The number of diseases that can be attributed to a genetic antecedent is staggering," Henry continued with a level stare. "I am certain that you've mapped the entire human genome years ago and can easily identify and eliminate any defective gene in an unborn fetus. Think of the unnecessary pain and suffering you could eliminate for both parents and children alike. Instead you waste your time on replicating homicidal maniacs like Detroit turns out automobiles. The common man, myself included, would consider what you could do here as miraculous. Is my assessment of your abilities accurate?" 

"Actually a bit understated. All of the things you've mentioned are well within my purview," Sinister said without the hint of arrogance in his voice. 

"Then why not share your genius with humanity? You were a medical doctor at one time, and acquainted with certain precepts -- above all else 'do no harm.' Even as long-lived as you are, you couldn't have forgotten the Hippocratic Oath," Henry said, his voice laced with a bitter sarcasm. 

"I have never forgotten a single thing." Sinister made a sound that almost resembled an honest laugh. "Would it surprise you to know that I helped Thomas Percival establish the first code of ethics in 1846? I was also present when the Nuremberg Code for research ethics on human subjects that was established during the war crime trials at the close of World War II." 

"_You_ want to speak to me about medical ethics?" Henry said disbelievingly. "_I_ most certainly understand the importance and practicality of obtaining consent from research subjects or surrogates if the subjects could not provide consent for themselves. I strongly doubt that you do. I also do not need a history lesson," Henry said, glowering. 

"That is precisely what you need," Sinister admonished. "Perhaps you could answer a question for me. Why do you not use the Shi'ar technology you have in your possession for the betterment of mankind?" 

"That is a different matter entirely," Henry said defensively, knowing where Sinister was leading. 

"In what manner?" Sinister asked, clearly irritated. "You X-Men are so sanctimonious. If the Shi'ar technology that you utilize in your med lab was made available to the medical community, do you deny that countless lives would be saved that can not be saved now?" 

"No I do not," Henry admitted somewhat sadly. "But less scrupulous people could and would apply that technology in ways that could prove quite hazardous to mutants and humans. What mutants lack in numbers is partially offset by the superior technology that we -- the X-Men possess. We are not willing and can not afford to give up that advantage, and would most certainly risk exposure and draw unwanted attention to ourselves with the release of this technology." 

"And I suppose none of your diatribe could be applied to me," Sinister said, his expression arrogantly impassive. 

Henry was unrepentant. "You've had over a hundred years to figure out a way and seem to have squandered that time on nothing but Machiavellian machinations." 

"Indeed," Sinister's eyes narrowed slightly with contempt. "Let me commence with succinct history lesson and a modest dissertation of _my_ contributions to science over the last one-hundred and forty years." 

Sinister began in a level tone, a faraway look in his eyes. "In 1866, Austrian botanist and monk Gregor Mendel proposed the basic laws of heredity based on crossbreeding experiments with pea plants. His findings were published in a local natural-history journal, and were largely ignored for over thirty years until _I_ reintroduced them, rekindling genetic research by the scientific community." 

Sinister continued, quickly listing past events and names that Henry was intimately familiar with. "In 1882, while examining salamander larvae under a microscope, German embryologist Walther Flemming -- quite honestly his _assistant,_ spots tiny threads within the cells' nuclei that appear to be dividing. The threads would later turn out to be chromosomes." 

"In 1910, U.S. biologist Thomas Hunt Morgan's experiments with fruit flies reveal that some genetically determined traits are sex linked. His work also confirms that genes determining these traits reside on chromosomes. In 1926, U.S. biologist Hermann Muller discovers that X-rays can cause genetic mutations in fruit flies. Both scientists attribute much of their findings to correspondence with an _unknown_ European doctor." 

"In 1944, working with pneumococcus bacteria, Oswald Avery, Colin Macleod and Maclyn McCarty _Milbury_ prove that DNA, not protein, is the hereditary material in most living organisms." 

"Need I go on about my work with British physician Douglas Bevis using amniocentesis to test fetuses for Rh-factor incompatibility, which would lead to screening for genetic disorders? Or my help to American biochemist James Watson and British biophysicist Francois Crick for _their_ discovery of the double helix structure of DNA, the molecule that carries the genetic code." 

"There is more -- much more, but I see no reason to continue. Since I have no peers, recognition has never been of any concern," Sinister said somewhat haughtily. "My point being is that over the years, I have fastidiously nurtured mankind's fledgling study of genetics, prudently considering the wisdom of revealing too much too soon -- helping, guiding whenever and wherever I could. My intention, completely altruistic..." 

"Altruistic!" Henry's eyes blazed. "You have the audacity to proclaim to possess that quality when you had men, women and children murdered. Did you hear me?!" Henry spat out the words contemptuously, Sinister's stony expression enraging him more. "You had children -- _children_ hunted down like poor wretched animals -- whose last sight was their parents being butchered by a group of psychotic killers. The survivors, God help them, live in constant fear and are unable to lead any kind of normal existence -- even normal for Morlocks, because of the psychological damage they suffered." Henry felt his heart hammering in his chest and was almost gasping for air as if he was in the midst of some great and prolonged exertion. All of this emotion had suddenly come to the surface, a catharsis that surprised Henry himself. 

For so very long, he had wanted to confront Sinister about the Morlock Massacre. Bobby was right, God help him, he did respect Sinister in a fashion. The scientist in him could not help but admire Sinister's great genius. But it was difficult to reconcile how he could admire a man capable of such a heinous atrocity? But he had uncovered some undeniable facts about the man before Sinister -- before Apocalypse's transformation. 

Who was Nathaniel Essex? The individual before him now who is considered the epitome of evil...was once incredibly a husband, a father, a man devoted to the pursuit of knowledge much like himself -- a scientist with such promise. 

Henry recognized the kindred spirit in Sinister. Like him, Sinister did not see the human and mutant genome as just a complex code to be unraveled or broken. It was more like a beautiful mosaic to be admired and appreciated -- an autobiographical record of all the vicissitudes and inventions that have characterized the history of our species and its ancestors since the dawn of life. 

He also realized that Sinister was blessed with one of those truly rare and gifted minds, and was peerless at deducing nature's secrets. He had bravely flaunted the strict conventions of his era, risking his reputation and position, solely to uncover the truth. What could possibly drive anyone, especially _this_ man to accept an offer from a monster like Apocalypse? 

When Scott and Jean had been time displaced and returned from the past and gave an account of what they had learned of Sinister's origins, Henry had been temporarily consumed by the information they had related. He had always had a personal fascination with Sinister and devoted a great deal of time searching for any signs of his deeds throughout the last two centuries. There were clearly indications of sudden inexplicable leaps of discovery in the field of genetics. A man gifted with immortality and Sinister's genius would certainly explain these leaps. Could Sinister's claims of providing beneficial guidance to mankind be true? 

Henry had personally seen the signs of a human being in Sinister. Faye Livingstone -- a woman, as improbable as it might seem, Sinister romanced in the 1930's was proof of that.(1) She clearly loved him despite being held prisoner and learning that she was nothing more than a test subject -- a genetic guinea pig in some macabre experiment. Sinister eventually released her well before his experiments ever reached fruition. She never married or had any children and spent her final years alone in the Carlysle Nursing Home, unable to walk or communicate with anyone. Unbeknownst to Charles, Henry had conducted his own investigation and had learned from one the of staff, an attending nurse named Doris, that a gentleman by the name of _Nathan Essex_ had visited Faye every year without fail for many years. She also informed him that this man had seen to it that she received the best of care, had paid all the nursing home bills and was genuinely concerned about her welfare. Were these the traits one would ascribe to a villain? Was this Mr. Sinister? 

Henry had thought long and hard about that incident. Was it regret over the way Sinister had treated her that kept him involved in her life? Did he experience guilt because he felt responsible at the way her life had turned out? Henry wasn't entirely sure but he was present when she died -- in Sinister's arms, and witnessed a brief but unmistakable emotion cross that cold glacial whiteness -- anguish. 

After their trip into the past, Scott and Jean had described Nathaniel Essex as driven scientist but more so, a loving husband and a father who lost everything he cared about. Even after knowing what they would suffer at Sinister's hands in the future, they had pitied him. Could the magnitude of the personal tragedy he suffered be the real reason behind his transformation? How could one quantify what the loss of a young child, a wife, and an unborn child would do to a person's soul? What could possibly be more damaging? Additionally, Scott and Jean had said that without Sinister's intervention and risk of his own life, the world would have most certainly fallen to Apocalypse especially since there was no one to oppose him then. Henry's gut instinct told him that somehow what Sinister had revealed about his contributions to humanity were true...but what could possibly explain the Massacre? 

Sinister recognized that Henry was wrestling with unanswered questions and spoke with grave deliberation. "Do you recall the incident with Threnody? I told you then that sacrifices have to be made in order for a greater good to be achieved. By your own admission, you told Robert Drake that I could do more for her -- more to fight the virus--than you could...because I was willing to damn parts of my soul to the task while you were not.2 " 

"I remember," Henry answered slowly. "But what does that...?" 

"The origins of the virus Henry, do you recall that I said I had access to the original host?" 

"Why yes, but Stryfe...the Morlocks -- the Morlocks?! Henry asked incredulously. 

Sinister nodded. "Years ago, I had detected a sudden and surprising concentration of mutant bio-signatures residing in underground tunnels. Curious, I investigated and discovered a hidden community of mutants -- mutants whose existence I had no record of. It seems that these mutants were artificially bred -- primarily laboratory-generated mutants. A difficult and significant accomplishment in itself, but a more ominous reason was behind this experiment. What I discovered was that this isolation was fostered to incubate a disease of incredible virulence." 

"The Legacy Virus," Henry spouted. 

"Yes, but an unmutated version of the virus that you are familiar with today," Sinister supplied -- "the virus that Stryfe was kind enough to supply me with." 

"Your brilliant but amoral counterpart the Dark Beast, had succeeded in creating a brand new mutant gene pool -- the Morlocks." 

Henry's heart skipped a beat and felt his stomach knot as he realized what Sinister was about to reveal. His doppelganger, an alternate Henry McCoy from a universe that should never have existed, a rabid animal that even had kidnapped and imprisoned him to take his place on the X-Men 3-- the creature that wore his face and for all intents and purposes was him, the one individual Henry could say that he loathed, not loathed, that he truly hated...the Dark Beast was responsible for the Legacy Virus? "My God, no," Henry whispered. 

"Unfortunately, yes," Sinister said dispassionately. "He was also conducting what I believed were some very unrefined experimentation with mutating protein structures and using the Morlocks as his test subjects. Initially, I had thought the disease was an accidental result of your counterpart's undisciplined experimentation. But I soon came to the realization that the virus was no accident. It was far too complex, brilliantly and specifically engineered. It was also well beyond the Dark Beast's capabilities to create. Furthermore I began to suspect that the Dark Beast was nothing more than a deadly, yet unknowing pawn in a much larger game." 

"Whose pawn and for what purpose?" Henry asked, transfixed. 

"I believe that the virus is a biological weapon, alien in origin. Its purpose -- the complete eradication of both mutant and mankind. The individual or individuals behind the disease -- I do not know," Sinister said, a look of disturbed concentration across his face. 

"And your _actions_...an attempt to stop the spread of the disease?" Henry asked. 

Bobby thought that Henry's face almost looked hopeful. 

Sinister simply nodded. 

"Why not ask for help, we...?" 

"Your _type_ was not even willing to sully its hands with the simple matter concerning Threnody," Sinister interrupted Henry, his tone supercilious. "To stop the spread of this virus required swift and brutal action. Much like a gangrenous appendage, it was necessary to cut off the arm in order to save the body. Why involve anyone else? My soul is already damned, why taint the purity of any of Xavier's saints?" Sinister said with a humorless smile. 

Henry shook his head, a confused expression on his face. "But why a team of killers? Why not just use a form of incendiary device to insure that no one escapes and no traces of the disease remained?" Henry trailed off softly, not believing what he just said. 

"Incendiary explosive devices specially designed by my own hand _were_ placed in the tunnels," Sinister answered. "I also physically sealed the tunnels and took precautions to prevent anyone from teleporting in or out." 

"You planned on killing everyone in the tunnels," Bobby suddenly interjected. "Both the Morlocks and your Marauders. And you probably selected a team of murderers, assassins, and sociopaths -- the real scum of the earth...because they deserved to die. Maybe that's your warped version of a conscience -- or as close as it gets. But what about Gambit?" 

Although Sinister did not respond to Bobby's statements directly, Henry observed that Sinister was regarding Bobby as if -- as if for just a brief moment, he was somewhat surprised about Bobby's insight -- and its accuracy. 

"I selected the members of the team due to specific talents and attributes," Sinister answered tersely looking at Henry. "It was of paramount importance that none of the infected parties escape. While my bio-signature recognition devices are virtually infallible, I _always_ build in multiple redundancies into all of my plans and endeavors. For instance, Sabertooth's acute sense of smell and ability to distinguish different scents coupled with Gambit's spatial awareness was another way to account for all the Morlocks -- and to insure that none would escape." 

"I am also first and foremost a scientist, and needless to say, not without what you moralists would call sin. I used this opportunity to conduct a field experiment of sorts. I was curious how Victor's unique immune system would deal with this new virus. I also wanted to have a _normal_ mutant subject infected with the virus as well." 

"Gambit," Bobby said disgustedly. 

"Having sole access to this virus might also be quite useful," Henry said, his voice thick with insinuation. "I imagine quite a bit could be learned from this alien generated virus. In the _right_ hands, or should I say competent hands, the virus would make for a very powerful weapon." 

"There is that," Sinister said blandly. 

"The disease did not spread," Henry said with a sudden realization. "You were successful, stopping the initial form of the virus. But... 

"No, I was not successful," Sinister said his lips pursed with suppressed fury. "Both of my explosive devices disappeared. Your teammates were also able to teleport into the tunnels, Sinister said shaking his head.4 "To this day I am at a loss to explain who or what was able to thwart me." 

"Apocalypse?" Bobby suggested. 

"No. I am uniquely familiar with the Celestial transport technology that Apocalypse employs and its distinct energy signature. This was something else entirely. Somebody -- the manipulator behind the Dark Beast, somehow discovered my plans to eliminate the disease and successfully foiled my attempt. I was forced to resort to a back-up plan and ordered my Marauders to begin eliminating all of the Morlocks." 

"There must have been another way," Henry said his voice thick with emotion. 

"There was not," Sinister said with a withering glare. "You do not understand. The present version of the Legacy Virus pales in comparison with what the Morlocks were infected with. I estimated that in fourteen days after I had ordered the Marauders to eliminate the Morlocks, the virus would have been fully developed and reached its highest level of communicability. Once the Morlocks left the tunnels, I projected that in two months, approximately three quarters of the world's population would have contracted the virus with a one hundred percent mortality rate. In three months, there would be no one left to compile any statistics on the disease." 

"That's impossible. No virus spreads or acts that quickly," Henry exclaimed. 

"I assure you, I have not hyperbolized the malignancy of the virus -- and my computations are quite accurate." 

"But the disease did not spread," Henry repeated. "None of the X-Men who entered the tunnels contracted the virus -- and all the Morlocks were not killed to contain the spread of the disease." 

"I believe that Apocalypse was responsible for stopping the virus," Sinister said a curious expression on his face. 

"Apocalypse?" Henry exclaimed. "I would think with his insane philosophy, he would have welcomed the disease." 

"Indeed," Sinister nodded in agreement. "But there is much of Apocalypse's philosophy and Apocalypse himself that bears investigating. All I can say is that Apocalypse appeared in the tunnels on _that_ particular day to gather the mutant called Plague, who would eventually become the Horseman known as Pestilence.5 That type of serendipity or happenstance stretches one's credulity. After that point, I could find absolutely no trace of the virus. I examined each and every one of the Morlocks as well as everyone who had ventured into the tunnels that day. The virus was gone." 

Henry's mind reeled with what he had just heard. Sinister ordered the extermination of all of the Morlocks to stop the spread of an even more deadly version of the Legacy Virus. To avert a worldwide catastrophe that would eliminate every living mutant and human being on the planet, Sinister had taken steps -- drastic steps. _The good of the many...,_ Henry thought soberly. Faced with the same choices, what would Charles or the X-Men have done? What would he have done? He could never believe that Charles would capable of murder no matter what the circumstances. But would that indecision have sealed the world's fate? 

_Sinister was right and his arguments were cogent,_ Henry thought. The X-Men were limited in many ways by their code of ethics. Sinister was free to act, with Threnody -- and with the Morlocks. Henry knew that evil and good were not as easily discernable as the colors ascribed to each -- black and white. There were innumerable gray areas that even the X-Men had been forced to deal with. But did the X-Men, or the world itself owe an incredible debt of gratitude to Sinister, or God help them, Apocalypse, for possibly saving all of civilization? Henry was deeply troubled and ashamed by his thoughts -- not only because of what Sinister had done, but a small and selfish part of him was grateful that it was Sinister who had known about the threat the Morlocks presented -- and had taken action. 

"Why tell us this now?" Henry asked quietly. "Why allow people to believe..." 

"That I had the Morlocks killed in a fit of pique -- because they are an affront to my future vision for mutants," Sinister said sounding grandiloquent. "Suffice to say that that belief serves a purpose, as does everything I do." 

"You were correct Henry, immortality can lead to boredom, and quite possibly a _temporary_ loss of morality. One goes through various stages of behavior when the specter of death no longer looms so large, but it also offers a unique perspective. Accept that for the moment that it does, and do not dismiss what I am about to say as the ravings of another megalomaniac." 

Sinister steepled his hands almost as if he was preparing to deliver a sermon. "You and the rest of the scientific community believe that evolution consists of a sort of generation-by-generation fine-tuning in each population, all under the benign guidance of natural selection -- the name we give to any and all factors that promote or inhibit successful reproduction by members of those populations. This process of gradual change inexorably leads to improvement in the species and ultimately to new species as those improvements accumulate." 

"Superficially persuasive as this view is, it ignores certain basic realities. It assumes, for instance, that organisms are little more than agglomerations of special-purpose mechanisms, each of which can be tracked independently of the packages of which they form a part. We speak of the evolution of upright walking or the evolution of the hand, often without realizing that legs and hands can only be part of the story." 

"The reality is that natural selection can vote up or down only on entire organisms, defects and all. Individual organisms are mind-boggingly complex and integrated mechanisms, they often succeed or fail, economically and reproductively, as the sum of their parts." 

"It is the same with populations and species. Species exist and compete with others in the real world of finite resources. They cannot survive as disembodied attributes. What's more, the ecologies of which they form a part have an alarming tendency to change abruptly. If an ice sheet covers your habitat, it's entirely irrelevant how well you are adapted to the meadows and forests now buried beneath the ice." 

"Finally, please bear in mind how distinctive new species originate. Even I do not comprehend everything about how this transpires, but I do know that in large interbreeding populations, it is extremely difficult, if not impossible, for new genetic variants to become established. If any meaningful innovations are to become established as a new species, it is essential that the population be small. Large populations simply have too much genetic inertia." 

Bobby noticed that Hank was completely engrossed, hanging on Sinister's every word. 

"You can hypothesize where this argument is heading. During the Ice Age, when our own species emerged, human populations were small and scattered and were continuously disrupted by climactic fluctuations. Conditions were ideal for genetic innovations. Today, however, the human population is 6 billion and mushrooming and increasingly densely distributed. At the same time, individual humans are incomparably mobile than ever before." 

"The upshot is that after a period of diversification, Homo Sapiens is in a mode of reintegration, as witness the fact that the boundaries between geographical variants of our species are becoming increasingly blurred. If present trends continue, those boundaries will become blurrier still. Amid all this, the conditions for incorporating meaningful new innovations into human populations have all but disappeared - and with them the prospects for significant evolutionary change." 

Sinister smiled. "Of course such predictions are based on the assumption that current conditions will prevail into the foreseeable future, and it is quite possible that this assumption is wrong. Anything that would serve to fragment the current huge human population might help re-establish the conditions necessary for future human change. Unfortunately, we would undoubtedly perceive such an event as a terrible disaster, since it would necessarily entail the disappearance of billions of human beings.6 But Apocalypse might not." 

"Left to its own devices, the mutant race will most certainly die out. This brief spurt in evolution is nothing but an aberration. For the most part, the majority of mutants are more susceptible to disease and are sterile. Should they reproduce, their offspring are highly unstable, their physiology unable to handle the great energies they possess." 

"Strangely enough, your leader's _dream_ is necessary for the mutant race to survive but not for the philosophical reasons he espouses. Humanity and mutants must coexist and interbreed. Humanity possesses the resistance to disease as well as the viability to multiply and stability to insure that mutants survive. Their numbers will remain small, extremely small, but with my attention and special cultivation, they will become firmly established." 

"Unfortunately, Apocalypse believes that humanity will weaken and dilute the mutant gene pool. He intends to eradicate any and all humans and by doing so doom mutantkind to extinction. I can not allow Apocalypse to complete his plans." 

"I'm not swayed by all your fancy gizmos and words," Bobby suddenly said. "So now we're to believe that you murdered all the Morlocks for a _good_ reason? You also think that mutants and humans should do the nasty as often as possible -- and you and the Professor are on the same side when it comes to mutants and humans? You must be nothing but a misunderstood bad guy," Bobby said mockingly. 

"You have a surprisingly keen insight, Drake, but a distinct lack of social graces. I would expect something more from the son of two such fine parents," Sinister said with a piercing glare. "William and Madeline, isn't it? Port Jefferson is such a lovely coastal community." 

Bobby was speechless, a pale look on his face. 

"Come now, Drake. You really don't believe that I am ignorant about your lineage? Someone who has devoted multiple lifetimes to the study of human and mutant genetics, wouldn't know who your parents are -- or about any siblings, nieces, nephews, or cousins? Do you believe that I wouldn't have complete knowledge about any blood relative of any of the X-Men? I would most certainly know where they lived -- if perchance I needed to locate them to test or confirm a theory of mine," Sinister said, his expression changing to match the underlying threat behind his words. 

"Hasn't it ever occurred to any of you X-Men how vulnerable you are to someone with my abilities? I could kill any number of you at any time easily and without your knowledge. I could expose your entire team, terrorize or blackmail you with a simple threat to any of your loved ones. Do you think for a minute that you would refuse to do my bidding should I decide to _entertain_ either of your parents in my home?" 

"But there is no cause for alarm," Sinister's expression changed and the terrifying threat that his eyes exuded a moment before was gone. "I only said the things I did to illustrate how easy it is for me to obtain your cooperation through less than pleasant means if I wished. I only want you to see that to question my sincerity is foolish and illogical. I am neither good nor evil -- neither petty nor malicious. But I will not shrink from difficult choices, nor will I hesitate to make sacrifices if I believe the greater good is involved. To further illustrate my goodwill, I can inform you that _I_ did not leave your teammate to die in the bitter cold of the polar wastelands. Quite the contrary -- I saved his life." 

Both Bobby and Hank exchanged glances. "You...you know where Gambit is?" Bobby said tremulously. 

"Of course." Sinister pointed towards a darkened corner of the large room. Another room was revealed, with four transparent walls. The interior was illuminated by Sinister's gesture and further revealed an advanced medical infirmary not unlike the X-Men's own. In the center of the room on rather simple bed was none other than Remy Lebeau -- or what remained of him. His head and torso appeared perfectly normal -- except for the fact that there wasn't any trace of either his arms or legs. 

* * *

**References**:  
[1]X-Men '95  
[2]X-Men #27  
[3]X-Men Unlimited #10  
[4]Uncanny X-Men #211  
[5]X-Factor #10  
[6]Ian Tattersal MNH 

* * *

Back || Next 


	7. Chapter 6

* * *

A TEST OF POWER

** BY DR**

Chapter 6

The possession of unlimited power will make a  
despot of almost any man. There is a possible  
Nero in the gentlest human creature that walks.  


Thomas Bailey Aldrich  
Ponkapog Papers, 1787

_3,000 years ago..._

It was a brief, shining moment in Egypt's history -- a time of epochal change presided over by a Pharaoh named Akhenaten and his beautiful wife Nefratiri. During his 17-year reign the old gods were cast aside, monotheism was introduced, and the arts were liberated from their stifling rigidity. Even Egypt's capital was moved to a new city along the Nile called Aketaten. But like Camelot, it was short-lived, and its legacy was buried in the desert sands. 

When Amenhotep II, as he was originally called, ascended the throne in 1353 B.C., Egypt was a flourishing empire, at peace with its neighbors. Yet there were troubling signs. His father Amenhotep I had already challenged the most powerful priesthood by proclaiming the sun god Aten as foremost among Egyptian deities and himself as his living incarnation. 

His son, an even greater revolutionary who was propelled either by madness or by great vision, murdered thousands hoping to gain favor of the invisible dark deities he venerated. The young Pharaoh never succeeded in attaining the notice of any of the Egyptian Gods he feverishly worshipped. Instead, he managed to attract the attention of a man who was sometimes worshipped as a god -- and who took a very personal interest in the Pharaoh's destiny. Amenhotep would later implore _any_ divine being to deliver him from this fate. 

He stood at the crest of a large sand dune, unnaturally still. He gazed down at the ruined city, his eyes shining with intensity unsurpassed by even the desert sun. Virtually motionless, he more closely resembled the immense monoliths raised to honor the great Pharaohs than any living man. Although these edifices were built carry their images throughout eternity, his flesh and bones were more impervious to the eternal elements than any rock-hewn structure or statue. He would outlast them all. 

Unrecognizable, Amenhotep's crushed and bloodied skull fell unnoticed from his hand. It silently rolled down the face of the dune, a trail of blood and gray pulp momentarily marring its unblemished face. The parched desert sand drank ravenously, its primordial appetite unquenchable, yet briefly pacified by the bloodletting. Perhaps the desert had some elemental awareness that this being shared its longevity -- and would nourish it more often, and in greater volumes than anyone before or after him. His rage temporarily mollified, the man who would be known as the immortal mutant Apocalypse closed his eyes, his thoughts mired centuries in the past. 

* * *

_2,000 years earlier_

He emptied the remaining contents of his stomach onto the burning desert sands. The open wound on his head was almost already gone. The blood had quickly congealed and hardened and a scab would soon fall from his scalp. Within minutes of receiving the wound, there would be no trace of the injury his father had been kind enough to bestow upon him. If another member of the tribe had received a similar wound, it was doubtful that they would ever recover. His seemingly miraculous healing ability along with his freakish appearance was just another thing that set him apart from his fellow tribesman. 

He wiped Nur's blood from the blunt edge of the huge cleaver he always carried and rested it on his shoulder. "You hesitated, why?" his father demanded. 

"I did not hesitate. I saw no reason to kill the woman or her daughter," he snapped back defiantly. He learned very early on that his father did not tolerate hesitation arising from fear from anyone...especially him. He might be punished for his insolence, but the castigation would be short-lived and comparatively mild. "If I am to become the great leader you say I will be, why should I concern myself with the life of a woman and a child?" 

The backhand slap from his father's huge hand only stung for a moment, and he managed to maintain his balance. Although he had anticipated the blow, he did not flinch and firmly stood his ground. He had received far, far, worse from his father. 

"A woman can wield a sword or a knife just as easily as any man. The child is younger than your seven seasons and is probably far more adept with a weapon than you are," his father said disgustedly. "Leaving these dependant and pathetic creatures alive diminishes us all. What little the desert offers cannot sustain both the strong and weak alike. Does the lion spare the hyena or share the pride's kill with its competition? It is no different with men. The weak and the infirm have no place in this world. Pity and compassion have no place in mine -- and they will have no place in yours," his father said with a ruthless stare. 

His father motioned to one of the tribesman. Hidden from his view behind several of the tribe's horses, the same woman and child he had spared were brought forward. They stood in front of his father, their heads bowed in submission. He was surprised that they were still alive and although his expression betrayed nothing, he was uneasy about what his father might have in mind. 

"They will be your personal slaves. You will be responsible for all their actions and see to it that they serve the tribe well. Should they fail to fulfill any of their duties, or cause the slightest of difficulties, _you_ will be punished," his father said in a severe tone. 

His father mounted his horse and began to ride away but then stopped, turning abruptly to face him. "You _will_ be disciplined for sparing their lives Nur, -- but not today," he said ominously. With that, Baal of the Crimson Sands, ferocious leader of the Sandstormers, held his sons eyes for a second more, and then savagely yanked on the reins and drove his horse out into the open sands.(1) 

Nur swallowed dryly. He was very familiar with his father's assurances of punishment, and the undeviating fashion in which he mercilessly carried out all his promises. 

The other members of the tribe, satisfied, began to go about their business or returned to their temporary shelters. His humiliation at the hands of his father had once again provided them with entertainment they seemed to crave. He had no idea why Baal had spared the woman and her child much less why he had given them to him as slaves. He was a warrior and had nothing in common with these women. Although the look of pure hatred the woman had given Baal, did not go unnoticed. He had seen her raise her head slightly, her eyes blazing murderously as his father rode off. Perhaps he did have something in common with them after all. 

* * *

_3 years later_

He returned to his tent, his hands and chest speckled with blood. He had just returned from another raiding party. The tribal settlement they attacked was completely caught off guard and offered little resistance. They had killed everybody and had taken anything that would be of use to help sustain their own tribe. 

Baal's relentless campaign across the desert of winnowing the weak from the strong had earned the Sandstormers a fearsome reputation. The only thing more fearsome than the tribe was Baal himself. Under his leadership and rigid unflagging doctrine, they had prospered and thrived. Survival of the fittest was the tribe's credo and Baal, fanatical and intolerant in its pursuit, mercilessly slaughtered anyone to adhere to that tenet. 

Fatima dampened a cloth and began to wipe the blood from his body and clothes as she had done countless times before. She would always be waiting for him to tend to both his body and his soul. Although there was never any reproach in her eyes, he could not help but feel shame in her presence for his actions. 

"The desert is a harsh and unforgiving home," Fatima said tenderly, recognizing Nur's expression. "The tribe that you raided today would have done the same to our tribe if they could. We have spoken about this many times before. You are just a boy Nur," she said gently -- "despite your father's expectations and demands. You do what you must to survive. There is no shame in that." Fatima sighed, shaking her head. "You are not like the rest of the bloodthirsty animals who call themselves warriors. You are not like them Nur," she repeated softly, her voice filled with compassion. 

Time and again she had comforted him when he returned from another of his father's 'training' exercises. None of the other male children his age would participate in the raids. They were still much too young, -- too weak to be of any use. His unnatural strength and endurance granted him the honor of butchering the other weaker tribes. Strangely enough despite his reluctance to kill, the other children despised him even more and were jealous of his participation. He was quite certain that the contempt the others felt for him pleased Baal to no end. 

Ironically, he doubted that he would have been able to suffer the guilt and revulsion he felt about killing others had it not been for Fatima and Tara. His father had unknowingly given him a reason to endure, a reason to go on living -- even a reason to continue killing. He had given Nur that which craved most of all -- a family. 

He knew he was different. He knew by the way younger children would stare at him saucer-eyed with fear, and the way children his age would laugh and taunt him. He knew he was different by the way woman would look away from his face in revulsion, and make warding signs mumbling things about him in hushed tones. He knew he was different because no one would truly speak to him -- ever. Only his father would speak to him, and that was usually to berate or punish him -- that or his ceaseless pontification about survival of the fittest and his role in molding him into its greatest proponent. 

In the past, he had borne all the pain and torment his father and fellow members of the tribe visited on him on almost a daily basis stoically, never admitting to the internal anguish it caused him. He had secretly watched other children of the tribe at play -- had seen friendships form. He observed families sharing affections, children loved and cherished by their birth parents. Even in this harshest of environments, he witnessed that these things were possible. He longed for a friend, someone to share his pain, even the few joys. He wanted an end to the aloneness -- someone, anyone to just speak with him. He yearned for something more than his father's promises of greatness and immortality -- and astonishingly enough, it had been his father of all people who had given it to him. 

Fatima was amazed at the boy's strength of will. She knew all to well at what desert life did to little boys and the men they would have to become. But Nur bore things -- tortures that no man let alone a child should bare. No indignity was too great or too harsh. Baal was unremitting in his punishment and isolation of Nur. The boy had suffered an alienation, a lack of companionship that was unbearable to watch let alone endure. Fatima could not imagine a more desolate or empty existence, yet somehow -- somehow knowing nothing but pain and torment, the boy had still retained a gentle soul. Yes, he was capable of extraordinary violence, but always after being provoked or to defend himself. The boy didn't possess any of the petty cruelty that was a common trait in members of the tribe. He was ugly beyond description, and strange in ways beyond his appearance, yet she had grown to love him as her own son. 

As far as their status as his personal slaves -- in truth, he expected so little from them and her duties were not very much different from their original tribe. After Baal had killed her husband -- Tara's father, in front of both their eyes, she thought Tara would never recover -- she had become so completely withdrawn. But Nur -- Nur had become her protector, an older sibling to look up to, a playmate even. He was so gentle with her, so caring and loving. He catered to her every need, tireless and seemed hungry for her affections and adorations. 

Ever so slowly, Tara had come out for her shell. She had feared him at first, they both did and his appearance certainly didn't help. But Nur was patient. He began by bringing her a different flower each time he returned from the open desert, secretly searching the desiccated landscape until he found one. He insisted on serving Tara all her meals and would sit and speak to her while she ate. He would do this day after day even though for a very long time, she would not respond. But Nur never seemed to get discouraged. He would draw pictures in the sand with his fingers or a simple stick -- none of which were any good. Eventually, these poor likenesses brought a smile to her face -- and finally laughter. Nur, a child himself, who had been the object of scorn, fear and hatred since his birth, had been the one to heal Tara. Nur had made her whole once again and for that alone; she would always love him. 

She believed that Tara was just as beneficial to Nur as she was to him. Fatima had never seen another boy as happy as Nur was when he was with Tara. She beamed brighter than the sun when she was in his presence and he beamed brighter still if that was possible when they were together. The boy needed a family, someone to love and someone to love him so desperately, urgently. 

She was a survivor as well. His well-being insured both her and Tara's survival. Slaves, especially female slaves, were extremely vulnerable and had no way or even the right to defend themselves. Two drunken warriors had one night stumbled into their dwelling and had attempted to have their way with her. She had fought viciously, tearing and screaming at the men in an attempt to free herself. She had awoken Nur and the rest of the tribe. No one had moved to help her -- no one except Nur. With a single swipe of his sword he had beheaded both of them. She still remembered how the sword had whistled through the air and not slowed at all when it had impacted both bone and sinew. Such was the force of the blow. 

She had feared that this action would betray the feelings he had for both herself and Tara. But Nur had threateningly warned everyone that they would befall the same fate if they attempted to touch his property again. Property -- no different than his sword or his horse. The boy was clever. His voice and face had been devoid of emotion but contained enough menace to get his message across. His father seemed to accept this, as did the rest of the tribe. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that a boy had just easily killed two fully-grown and seasoned warriors. Nur had scared her that day. He had also scared the rest of the tribe -- battle hardened survivors. She had seen the fear in their eyes. Not fear of dying, but fear of Nur. 

Of course Baal could not let it end there -- he would somehow always find a way to punish Nur. As they all returned to their dwelling she heard Baal snap out some instructions but was unable to make out what was said. She asked Nur if had understood what his father had commanded. She could still remember Nur's vacant expression and numb response. Baal had ordered that the wives and children of the two warriors that Nur had just killed be brought forth and put to death. Uncharacteristically Baal provided his reasons for his decision. He told the assembled warriors that in the morning, the tribe would be moving to a distant location and could not be burdened with woman and children who no longer had any provider. Nur did not emerge from his tent until the next morning. 

* * *

Baal had ordered Nur and two other Sandstormers to scout a few miles behind the tribe as they moved across the western region of the Valley of the Kings. They were instructed to look for any signs of pursuit from the Pharaoh's soldiers and report back to Baal. They had found nothing. It was mid-morning when they had caught up to the rest of the tribe, and Nur was surprised to see that that they had stopped and set up an encampment. He quickly scanned the temporary settlement and became alarmed when he was unable to locate the tent that he shared with Fatima and Tara. He then noticed that none of the other male warriors were anywhere in sight. He looked around wildly and felt an icy chill run down his spine as he pulled his sword out beginning to panic. 

His eyes caught the silhouette of a group of people at the top of a large sand dune that overlooked their encampment. He brought his forearm up to his head to shield his eyes from the glaring mid-morning sun and his heart began to race at what he saw. Two warriors held Fatima and Tara, large knives pressed against both their necks. 

Nur bolted up the side of the dune his pulse racing madly, his sword waving up and down pacing his stride. Nauseating spurts of adrenalin coursed through his veins propelling him up the face of the dune at inhuman speed. 

He stopped abruptly at the top of the dune ten feet from Fatima and Tara. He felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach when he was able to recognize the two warriors that held them -- Hassim and Mamut, two of his father's most ruthless and sadistic henchmen. Baal had entrusted them with instructing him in the use of different weapons and hand to hand combat at a very young age. They had taken great pleasure in punishing him repeatedly for the slightest mistake. He had received savage beatings from the both of them for no other reason than to determine how quickly he could recover from a variety of wounds and broken bones. 

Baal stood a few feet away from Fatima and Tara, his face a mask of cold-hearted brutality that made Nur's throat gulp spasmodically. The remaining warriors were well behind him, their nostrils dilated, and hands twitching at their sword hilts. Nur had seen that look many times before. It was the look of hungry bloodlust -- whenever the Sandstormers anticipated killing. 

"Father, why?" Nur asked, his voice shriveling in his own throat. 

Baal did not answer but posed his own question. "What are they to you Nur?" his father asked, his tone and facial expression angry. 

"They...they are my slaves," Nur stammered. "I may do with them as I see fit," he said with little confidence. 

Baal snorted. "Is that all they are to you Nur?" his father said distastefully. He gestured to Hassim who pressed the knife painfully against Fatima's neck. 

"No wait!" Nur yelled as he moved forward. 

Baal drew his sword blocking Nur and motioned to Hassim to stop. Hassim reduced the pressure against her neck. Nur could see beads of blood well up where the wicked blade had cut her skin. But she did not cry out. She looked back at Nur, unafraid, her only concern was for her daughter. Nur could tell that if he were to do anything, Fatima wanted him to help Tara first. They had come to know each other so well, he could tell this all from her eyes. But he wanted her to speak and tell him what to do. Things were moving much too quickly. 

Baal stared at Nur threateningly. Understanding, Nur stopped and took a step back. Baal returned the sword to his sash. 

"Have you grown fond of the woman and the girl? Do not hesitate Nur," his father added quickly, snarling. 

"Yes," he barely murmured. 

"Hand me your weapon," his father commanded. 

Nur quickly acquiesced. "Please father, do not hurt them," Nur pleaded, not knowing what else to do. 

His father had an odd look on his face, one he had never seen before -- genuine disappointment. 

"You are helpless and unarmed," Baal stated very matter-of-factly. "You would do anything I asked -- betray the entire tribe -- anything, just for the lives of a simple woman and child." 

His father shook his head. "Do you think I spared their lives many years ago on a whim? And do you think I am blind Nur? Or am I a fool who is easily deceived? Do you not understand the lesson I've tried to impart?" Baal screamed in exasperation, his eyes bulging from their sockets. 

Nur could not answer, his voice was paralyzed by fear. 

"As a leader, the leader of all people that you are destined -- the leader you **will** become in the distant future -- the leader I was entrusted to mold and shape by the Gods themselves," Baal's voice ascended to a murderous falsetto as the veins in his neck stood out in livid ridges. "You must always walk alone, always!" he thundered. "You are special Nur, chosen," Baal said, his eyes transfixed manically on his son. "Look at you Nur -- weak, vulnerable, defenseless, all over them!" his father said incredulously, questioning how Nur could possibly behave this way. 

"You must never be fettered with the things that can make even the greatest warrior weak, cowardly, ineffectual -- a family, loved ones," he spat out the words contemptuously. "They are for lesser beings. Not for you Nur, **never** for you! I will drive this lesson into your skull, imprint my words onto your brain with my bare bloodied hands if I must," Baal ground out the words through clenched teeth. 

Suddenly with brutal detachment, he heard his father's voice as if he were speaking from far away -- "kill them." 

With a look of malicious glee on their faces, Hassim and Mamut slashed the necks of both Fatima and Tara. 

Nur felt disembodied as if in a dream; events appearing to move in slow motion as he saw two gaping maws open and grow wider and wider in both their necks, as their heads lolled to the side at an impossible angle. For a moment, he could see the interior of their throats with utter clarity, wet purple-ridged tissue. Then suddenly, his vision was quickly obscured by a wash of red spray -- thick warm blood. He could hear their blood gargled screams pierce his consciousness as he saw them drop lifeless to the sand. 

He crossed the ten feet and leapt toward Hassim. Hassim, who was extremely adept with a dagger, slashed lightening fast at his chest. Nur was faster. He ducked underneath Hassim's attempt to cut him and grasped his wrist, twisting his arm and the blade toward his raised chin. He plunged the blade into the soft tissue between his jawbone, then upwards through his tongue, penetrating the roof of his mouth and finally through the bridge of his nose. For a second, the point of the blade was clearly visible, protruding between Hassim's wide-open and fear filled-eyes. A piece of Hassim's forebrain clung wetly to the tip of the blade -- until Nur savagely yanked it out in one twisting motion. 

Nur was still in a crouched position, and facing away from the other knife-wielding warrior. Mamut used the opportunity to drive his blade right into Nur's exposed back. 

Nur turned and locked eyes with Mamut. Mamut released his grip on the handle of the dagger and froze because of what he saw in Nur's eyes -- blind murderous rage, and death. Seemingly unaffected by his mortal wound, Nur drove his knife between Mamut's legs forcing it upwards with such strength, that Nur's hands and arms entered Mamut's abdominal cavity. Mamut let out a bloodcurdling scream as Nur once again twisted and savagely tore out the blade. Mamut's viscera and entrails spilled out of the cavity Nur had opened. Mamut remained standing for a second, his lips pulled back in a grotesque rictus, and then fell face first dead into his own bloody innards. 

The others looked on, eyes watching with fascinated horror. Nobody moved as Nur dropped the dagger and stumbled over to Fatima and Tara. He dropped to his knees beside their lifeless bodies and reached out with trembling hands, and gently caressed both of their faces. Even in the desert sun, their skin was already cold. The only thing his mind allowed him to see were Tara's terrified eyes -- while she was still alive, questioning why Nur did nothing to stop these men from hurting her. 

He threw his head back and began to scream uncontrollably -- a high and hysterical cry, shrill with horror. It then became guttural as Nur felt something well up inside of him and break. The screaming changed even further, becoming impossibly deep, monstrous. The Stormriders could feel the scream rumbling inside their own stomachs, so low and bottomless, that their bellies actually began to feel raw. 

They started to back away in fear and became terrified as Nur began to glow slightly, a golden aura surrounding him. He suddenly stopped screaming and mercifully passed out, the glow fading. 

The Stormriders did not move or speak, their faces ashen and eyes numbed with fear. Only Baal moved forward, his expression awed as he reached out to help his son. 

* * *

_10 years before_

_Akkaba....the beginning_

They were driven out into the desert night without a drop of water or a morsel of food. They would not kill his wife or his newborn son outright, but instead chose to banish them to the open desert without any supplies -- a certain death sentence none-the-less. 

Three previous pregnancies had resulted in their children being born devoid of any life, and all horribly disfigured. They both so desperately wanted children that when their son was born, they could almost ignore his appearance. When he entered the world and took his first breath, crying so fiercely, so full of life, they were overjoyed. 

The tribal elders were of a different opinion. One look at his strange skin coloring and disfigured face and they had immediately decreed that the child was an abomination. He was thought to be an evil omen and would bring about the ruination of the tribe if he were allowed to live. They attempted to remove the child from its mother but he had shoved the elder to the ground. He would not allow them to touch his son. Striking an elder was virtually unheard of, yet he reacting instinctively. Although he was an incredibly large man, powerful and possessed exceptional fighting ability, he could not successfully fight the entire tribe. Individually, he could kill any of the other warriors, easily, and they were aware of this. But who would defend his wife and his newborn son while he was fighting? 

He had attained a very high standing in the tribe and had many friends among the tribe's warriors. He did not believe that they would shed their blood, but they would not go against the elder's decree. Tribal law had been ingrained into the children at a very early age and for so many generations that it was unthinkable to dispute the elders. But they also could not kill him or his family in cold blood, so a compromise was reached. 

He supported his wife with one arm moving slowly, letting her set the pace. She was very weak due to the birth of their son. In his other arm he carried his newborn son, quiet despite all the commotion. Several of the tribal women tried to sneak some food and water to him as he left the settlement, but they were unsuccessful. The elders had expected this and had chosen select warriors stop the women. The elders were a superstitious lot, and could not allow anything that might help the child, -- the abomination survive. The warriors reluctantly did as they were told and watched as he and his family set out into the desert night. 

He knew he had to find water and food quickly before the sun rose or they would perish. He could travel much faster on his own but could not leave his wife or his child alone. There were dangerous scavengers about, and other predatory tribes. He also thought that the elders might change their minds and convince a few warriors to venture out and kill them. 

Thankfully it was a clear moonlit night and as chance would have it, they came upon a lone stranger. The stranger was an old man traveling slowly on horseback and was headed directly towards them. He quickly noticed large water pouches, filled to capacity on either side of the man's horse. He intended to throw himself on the mercy of the stranger but would kill him if necessary. He had little desire to do this but would not let his family become another victim of the desert elements. He had his weapon at his side. At least the elders had allowed that. The old man had seen them as well and did not alter his course or his pace. 

He gently lowered his wife to the sand into a seated position, and placed his son wrapped in heavy cloth into her arms. She gratefully accepted the boy anxious to hold and feed him again. She graced them both with a warm smile; hope creeping back into her eyes. The stranger stopped, dismounted his horse and was peacefully approaching them, a broad smile on his face. He could clearly see that the old man had no sword on his person. If he had a dagger, it was of little consequence. He could easily overpower the old man even without his sword. 

He walked to the stranger as well, a genuine smile on his face, believing that possibly good fortune had favored them and that they had happened upon a kind old man. 

"Stranger, will you help us? My wife has just given birth, and we are alone without food or water. Could you spare something for them?" 

The stranger smiled. "Of course." The stranger stopped ten feet from him. "May I ask, is the baby -- did your wife give birth to a son?" 

"Yes...yes, it is indeed a son," he smiled proudly. 

"Excellent," the stranger said smiling more broadly. He removed an odd looking object from his clothing. He pointed it directly at his wife. 

"What are you doing?" he said more curious than alarmed. 

A thin blinding white beam emerged from the object and struck his wife directly in the head. A perfectly round hole appeared on her forehead. Not a drop of blood fell from the black cavity -- only a small wisp of smoke. She fell onto her back, dead, the baby still clutched protectively in its mother's arms. 

His mouth fell open. "What manner of God...? His words were cut off abruptly as the stranger fired his weapon a second time, killing the boy's father instantly. 

It would have been more prudent to kill the male first but he wanted the man to see his mate killed. He truly enjoyed punishing these simple-minded simians whenever he could. 

He approached the female. The child was lying on her chest quietly sleeping, oblivious that its parents were dead. He reached down and removed the covering that partially obscured its face. The child awoke instantly and let out a piercing and obscene wail that cut through the desert night. _The child was ugly,_ he thought, even for this primitive race that had evolved from apes. _Evolved,_ he mused. He supposed he was in a generous mood. He wondered how his _brother_ could stand to _watch_ these animals, let alone come to care for them. 

He attempted to remove the child from its mother, but could not pry her hands from the covering. No matter. He discharged the energy weapon twice more, severing both her hands, freeing the child. The child howled louder if that was possible. 

He roughly shoved some of the covering in the child's mouth, its head and neck jerked spasmodically as it fought to get air. He picked up the child, pleased that he had muffling most of its cries and smiled. "What seems to be the problem?" he cooed to the baby. What was the human expression and word they used to describe those who were different? "Does a cat have your tongue...mutant?" 

The child struggled harder. Aron smiled shaking his head, and spoke to the child once more. "You are not known for your sense of humor in the future, _Lord Apocalypse,_" he said mockingly. "As a matter of fact, according to my brother, I believe you are a rather dour individual. We can't have that." 

He threw the baby high into the air, its arms flailing wildly with the innate fear of falling that every newborn had. It landed hard with a dull thud onto a collection of stones...exactly where Baal would find himself shortly. The child was silent -- and still. "Nothing to say dread lord?" Aron called after the child. "I am sure you will be fine. From what I have learned, you are a resilient little fellow. And don't fret -- your _new father_ will be by shortly. He is a rather uncivilized brute, even for your kind. But rest assured, I have instructed him on the proper method to raise you. He seemed quite eager. You have such a wonderful life ahead of you, I am almost envious. I must confess to feeling a bit guilty, passing myself off as a god as it were." A reflective look crossed his face. "In retrospect, compared to your kind, I suppose I am a god," he said with some conviction. 

"I would love to stay, but _'time_ waits for no man'." He chuckled. "You humans have so many quaint expressions, but that one isn't quite true, is it?" 

Aron laughed even louder, pleased by his own wit. He then disappeared from that place... and that time. 

* * *

* * *

**References**:  
[1]The Rise of Apocalypse #1  



	8. Chapter 7

* * *

A TEST OF POWER

** BY DR**

Chapter 7

Of war men ask the outcome,  
not the cause.  


Seneca  
Herucles Furens, ca. 50

_The present_

He was still angry as plowed down the city streets, his hands in his coat pockets and a scowl that warned everyone to stay out of his way. Even on a good day, Nathan Dayspring Summers was an imposing enough figure that people would naturally step aside rather than attempt to play sidewalk 'chicken' with him. Today, one look at his face and body language, and even New York City's pedestrian warriors gave him at least a ten-foot berth. 

When Rogue had phoned him this morning and without any preamble informed him that -- that Mr. Sinister wanted to meet with him this afternoon, he had gone directly to the Professor. Rogue had filled him in on a few other things that Sinister had related to her, and to say he was skeptical about what Sinister had told her was an understatement. This was after all _Sinister_ that they were talking about. But what had surprised him most was the Professor's reaction. 

Cable had approached the Professor about a potential small-scale operation to possibly subdue and capture Sinister. This would be the first time that they had some prior knowledge about where Sinister would be and he didn't want to squander that kind of opportunity. Of course Cable was more interested in learning about Sinister's first hand information about Apocalypse -- but getting Sinister _off the streets_ so to speak, was a good thing no matter how you looked at it. Unfortunately that wasn't quite how the X-Men's founder saw it. 

The Professor had looked at him with that insufferable calm gaze and went on to tell him that Bobby and Hank had actually been staying at one of Sinister's labs for the past few days. He related all that transpired and said he had spoken to Hank at length about some of Sinister's claims. 

Cable had blown up at this point. He knew his own reputation for a 'shoot first ask questions later' type of mentality -- but some of the X-Men were actually bunking at Sinister's place and the Professor thought this was OK? This wasn't some two-bit Friends of Humanity loser they were dealing with, Cable had told the Professor. This was the murderer of the Morlocks, a centuries old cold and indifferent killer, who hid behind the title of _Scientist,_ as if that facade would excuse the atrocities he had committed in the pursuit of knowledge. This was the devil himself. 

The Professor hadn't gotten excited about his outburst. If anything, he became even more subdued. He gently told Cable that he understood his _personal_ reasons for his distrust of Sinister. He asked Cable to apply the same logic and benefit to capturing Sinister that a temporary truce or affiliation could. He also reminded Cable that finding a cure for the Legacy Virus was worth almost any risk. He pleaded with Cable to trust his judgment and meet with Sinister to see what he had to say. 

Something in the Professor's tone told him that the Professor wasn't just throwing caution to the wind and trusting Sinister without question. The Professor wanted to play this hand out and some of the cards were going to have to remain face down for the time being. He reluctantly accepted this but still maintained that this was a big mistake. The only outcome when dealing with Sinister was that one or more of the good guys, somewhere down the line wouldn't make it. 

He approached the park cautiously, choosing to enter by the Metropolitan Museum of Art off of East 84th Street. He didn't care for museums...didn't care for them at all. They contained physical representations of the past, things that you could pick up, touch, and feel. But all those things had come and gone, and were immutable -- impossible to change. He felt all this despite the fact that his mission, his entire life, was devoted to changing the past. Walking amongst living breathing beings that were part of his past was significantly different than looking at some dusty inanimate relics. Here he felt things were still fluid and being part of that dynamic he could effect some kind of change. At least that's what he hoped. 

He walked lightly down the few cement steps and immersed himself into the midst of a throng of people. At this time of day this was probably the busiest part of the park and with a few telepathic tricks, blended innocuously into the crowd. He randomly probed as many people as possible as walked towards his destination to see if he could detect any of Sinister's goon squad that he might have placed in the park. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary, which meant very little. If nothing else, Sinister was a meticulous planner and left nothing to chance. He would have taken great care to hide any of his _employees_ both visually and telepathically if that was his desire. Cable was careful in his own way as well and continued his scan none-the-less. 

He passed the Obelisk and rounded a corner just shy of the Delacorte Theater and was shocked by what he saw. There was Sinister, right where he said he would be -- and he was, the bastard was playing chess. He was dressed in a long black cashmere coat, black gloves, and black shoes. Not flashy but stylish -- _right in fashion with the rest of the Wall Street punks,_ Cable thought. Cable could make out his face quite clearly. He was missing his trademark red diamond and instead of his normal pallor, a healthy peach cast adorned his finely chiseled features. What was unmistakable and most recognizable to Cable was the cold aristocratic arrogance that Sinister always seemed to exude. 

Cable moved a little closer and then noticed that Sinister was not playing one game but several games simultaneously. All of his opponents were seated at the permanent cement chess tables deep in thought. Sinister on the other hand Cable noted disgustedly, didn't sit at all. His conceit wouldn't allow him to sit because it might give the opposing player the idea that the two players were of equal skill. Instead, he sauntered from table to table, pausing briefly, his hands folded behind his back until he was ready to move a piece. He would also take the time to grace his opponent with a condescending smile after each move. 

Cable had frequented this part of the park before and had quietly watched some the chess matches. It might surprise some people that he was a rather accomplished player. He supposed that people didn't take him for the type of person that would indulge in games, but he actually enjoyed a competitive chess match. A master military strategist, Cable found that chess honed his tactical skills, and relaxed him to some degree allowing him to think more clearly. He was a good enough player to recognize that the players in this park were far from amateurs but accomplished players as well. Only devoted chess players with a true love of the game would come and play outdoors all year round. Cable had seen first hand that actual Grand Masters would occasionally visit the park and do exactly what Sinister was now doing. 

Sinister looked up and made direct eye contact with Cable and smiled. "I have a rather pressing appointment gentlemen. Let's see if I can move things along a bit. Your bishop's opening Scholar's Mate was an easily recognizable trap," Sinister said to the elderly and neatly dressed gentleman seated directly across from him. "If you favor bishop openings, you might consider Legall's Mate. Against a _novice_ player, you might find it to be a bit more effective," Sinister said somewhat haughtily. "Checkmate in three moves." He moved quickly to the next table. 

"Your King's Gambit opening allows for quite a bit of latitude. But unfortunately your playing black and must be very careful to protect the extra pawn on f4. Becoming over-eager can result in a fatal weakening of the king's pawn cover." Sinister shook his head apologetically while moving his knight. "Checkmate." 

"A Danish Gambit as an opening trap," Sinister nodded his head in appreciation. "And a somewhat innovative version no less. I must admit I was caught off guard but you should have pressed your attack. You unfortunately chose to retreat with your bishop, which resulted in your present predicament. "Checkmate," Sinister paused, forecasting the next several moves in his head, -- "in eight moves." 

For the next two minutes, he went from table to table, thirteen in total. The outcome was the same in every case -- checkmate in so many moves. 

Sinister walked out of the circle of onlookers who had gathered to observe the games, then stopped and turned. "Thank you for a most enjoyable afternoon gentlemen. I might offer a bit of advice. The opening moves that you employed, going for the quick kill so to speak, is almost always ineffectual against an experienced player. Patience in chess as well as patience in life I find, bears the greatest fruit," Sinister said with a reflective smile on his face and then turned and walked away from the gaming area. The players immediately returned to their respective games to study what went wrong. 

"Did you have fun beating up on the little kids in the schoolyard old man?" Cable called out to Sinister acerbically. 

Sinister turned his back to Cable and began to casually walk across the Great Lawn. He stopped realizing that Cable had not moved to accompany him. "I think a nice walk around the reservoir would be most enjoyable -- and highly informative," Sinister added. 

Cable snorted and walked up along side of him. "A stroll in the park with Mr. Sinister," Cable said acidly. "Did you pack a picnic basket and blankets?" he asked drolly. 

"Not quite, Nathan. I am pleased to see that you haven't lost your puerile sense of humor." 

"All right, what do you want Sinister?" Cable said bluntly. 

"What do I want?" Sinister responded. "Nothing really, other than to talk." 

"I'm listening," Cable said -- "for now," he added. 

"I'm here to absolve you of your responsibility." 

"What?" Cable said choking on something that almost sounded like laughter. 

"As you might have already been told or surmised, I am gathering a team of the most powerful mutants to dispose of Apocalypse. Your quest -- your Askani holy grail, is unnecessary and futile". 

Cable had a look of amused annoyance on his face. "Thanks for telling me now. And what the flonq do you mean, futile?" 

"You never could defeat Apocalypse, with or without the techno organic virus I might add." 

"Thanks for your vote of confidence," Cable chuckled arrogantly. "And I guess we'll just have to see about that," Cable shot back at what he perceived as Sinister's disparagement. "So let me get this straight. You told Rogue..." 

"Let me save you some time," Sinister interrupted. "You believe that my purpose in creating..." Sinister paused, a thoughtful look on his face and then continued. "You presume that my purpose in manipulating events that resulted in your birth was to fight Apocalypse." 

"And you told Rogue that wasn't true," Cable said impatiently. "So what is it? You just thought you'd would play matchmaker between Madelyne and Cyclops." 

"Ah Nathan, sardonic to the bitter end," Sinister chuckled. "It's quite simple really. I knew many years ago that it would take a mutant of enormous power to defeat Apocalypse. Nature at times can be quite fickle and time was a luxury I really didn't have. So I simply decided that it would be necessary to _make_ one." 

"Make one," Cable repeated disgustedly at Sinister's indifference. "You arrogant flonq. So I guess that's where I came in." 

"Yes but not in the way you think," Sinister answered. "A mutant powerful enough to defeat Apocalypse would have to be able harness and command tremendous energies. To that end I discovered that these energies seemed to have a pernicious effect. At relatively low levels, psionic energy has little or no effect on the user. But past a certain threshold and after long-term usage, there can be some damaging consequences. The result, a variety of physical maladies primarily affecting the outer layers of the brain that control perception, reasoning, and memory. This deterioration of dura matter leaves the victim with an increasing skewed view of reality leading to insanity and eventually in many cases death. Proteus, Legion, Magneto, and your beloved Professor in his Onslaught personae have suffered from this to varying degrees. Quite simply the energy would literally eat you alive. I worked for many years to overcome this problem and found what I thought was the answer in the joining of Jean Grey and Scott Summers DNA. The aggregation of their most unique DNA structures resulted in not only a mutant of multiple abilities and almost unlimited power, but also possessed with an extreme resiliency to psionic energy. But alas, I forecasted that even your sturdy structure would eventually give way to the raging energies and break down. Your carbon copy refugee from another reality Nate Grey, would have eventually succumbed to this condition. Unfortunately, I had failed." 

"And then something entirely unexpected," Sinister said with an expression of surprise. "Apocalypse infected you with the techno organic virus of my creation, which had an unforeseen effect on your metabolism.(1) The use of your telekinetic ability to control the virus in conjunction with the virus itself, had a dampening effect on the harmful repercussions of the great psionic energies you possessed. So much in fact that it rendered you completely immune to the lethal consequences." 

They had reached the reservoir and began to walk around the large body of water, all but invisible to the endless parade of joggers deeply involved in their daily constitutional. 

"You're a real trip Sinister," Cable said with a short and bitter laugh, "and you have to love the way you operate. You don't let anything get in the way of what you want. You think Jean's dead, but you don't let that flonq up yours plans. Nope, you just reach into your bag of DNA tricks and pull out Madelyn. Well she's a dead ringer for Jean thanks to your Sear's cloning catalogue. Scott's so grief-stricken, he can't help but fall in love with her. Put one and one together and you get three -- in this case me." 

"Quite an experiment -- even a failed one at that," Cable said contemptuously. "How many people got flonqed up along the way? Look at what it cost Maddie and what that cost a hell of a lot of other people. How about Scott and Jean? 

"And what about you Nathan?" Sinister asked voicing Cable's unspoken thought. 

"What about me?" Cable spit out the words his fists balled at his sides. "Like you give a shit about me or anyone else. You're a user Sinister, there's no mystery there. A professional liar," he said vehemently. "A flonqing murderer, worse...maybe worse than Apocalypse," Cable stammered with rage. 

"Once again, an argument about ethics, my ethics of course" but waved off Cable's comments dismissively. "You and your rather obtuse friends can not be held completely accountable. After all, my ostensible motivation has always been to create an impression of moral turpitude. But what I find objectionable is that now you seek to take the moral high ground," Sinister said derisively. "Forgive me, but I didn't know I was in the presence of a saint." 

"I never said anything about being a saint. You can twist and turn everything I say but that doesn't change what you are," Cable said acidly. "I don't pretend to know why you've been pushing a lot of crap to people lately -- but I know it's not the truth." 

"Really Nathan. And here I thought you had such a high opinion of me," Sinister said in such a fashion as though nothing could be further from the truth. "I shall speak the plain truth, indisputable even coming from me because they are things you've experienced firsthand." Sinister put the palm of his hand under his chin as if in deep thought. "Where to start? I find that comparisons tend to put things in perspective quite nicely. Perhaps we should discuss the morality of killing another human being. When you shoot at an enemy from a distance, is that all you see in your gun sight Nathan... just an enemy? Do you ever wonder whether that rival solider has a father or a mother, a wife, a son or maybe a daughter? Does that ever give you pause?" Sinister went on relentlessly. 

Cable said nothing, but his stony expression betrayed feelings of anger as his eyes began to smolder. 

"But you're fighting a war -- and people die in wars," Sinister continued. "I can hear you now extolling all the virtues of the X-Men or your comrades in arms. Let me go one step further. How about all the decisions you've had to make that resulted in deaths of other people -- strangers, friends, even loved ones. Your son and even your wife, fighting by your side..." 

He quickly turned towards Sinister and grabbed the lapels on Sinister's coat, the veins throbbing at his temple. He only succeeded at drawing himself closer to Sinister and not the other way around as he had intended. Sinister was incredibly strong and he was well aware that in a physical contest, he would lose and lose badly. Sinister had pushed his buttons and had probably gotten the reaction he wanted. But flonq it, he still didn't have to tolerate the use of his family as the subject of Sinister's jibes. 

"What I do and what you do are two different things," Cable said his voice dripping with spite. "Don't use my family to make any of your points," he said raising his voice as his left eyed glowed dangerously bright to further emphasize his point. 

"Perhaps my choice of words was -- unsettling." But please remove your hands from my person and calm yourself Nathan. I have no desire to create a spectacle. I must say that I prefer the taciturn soldier that I've come to know to this stentorian ruffian standing before me." 

Cable snorted and released Sinister. "You don't know me." 

"Ah but you know me, correct? Sinister said nodding his head in mock understanding. 

"I know what you do -- what you've done. I've known a lot of guys like you -- killed a few whenever I could," Cable said with a predatory smile. "But none of them were as bad as you. None of them with your gift of gab -- rationalizing everything as the 'greater good,'" Cable said mockingly. "The Professor let me in on some of the stuff you told Bobby and Hank. I don't buy any of it." 

"You believe people like me are responsible for all of the ills that the world suffers, don't you Nathan?" Sinister asked seeming genuinely curious. 

"All, no. I guess I can't hold you responsible for the traffic problems in Manhattan, can I?" Cable said with a vicious smile. 

"Ignorance." Sinister said emphatically. 

"What are you talking about now?" Cable glowered. 

"Ignorance Nathan. A societal cancer that has eaten away at the fabric of what we call civilization since its inception." 

"And what am I ignorant of?" Cable said knowing that he was opening himself up to another one of Sinister's petty comments. 

"What has transpired -- all that has transpired to bring us to this point in time. You are also ignorant to the fact that I truly wish to unburden you of the task that you _believe_ that the Askani have placed solely upon your shoulders. As much as you might like to deny it, I am after all responsible for your being here and feel a certain measure," Sinister paused and incredibly seemed to be groping for the correct words. "I feel duty-bound to see that my -- my work is not wantonly squandered on a fool's errand." 

Sinister didn't say the word 'creation', but Cable could hear it in Sinister's voice none-the-less. 

"Oh give me a flonqing break," Cable blurted incredulously. 

"And why not?" Sinister quickly responded. "You've suffered enough -- more than most." 

Cable laughed out loud. "Sorry Essex, compassion coming from you? Even you can't sell me on that." 

"Maybe so, but I also wanted to keep a promise to your sister," Sinister said with a furtive glance at Cable. 

Cable stopped abruptly and fixed Sinister with a withering glare. "What the hell do mean my sister? "You never..." Cable's voice trailed off at Sinister's raised eyebrow expression. 

"I've never what, spoken to your sister?" Sinister said pointedly. 

Cable said nothing, waiting for Sinister to continue and answer his own question. 

"I've spoken to _every_ member of your family...at one time or another. But let me first pose a few questions, Nathan - indulge me for a moment. Your sister had the ability to transfer the essences of both Scott and Jean, their souls if you will, into two host bodies and bring them 2,000 years into the future. She also _supposedly_ created Stryfe, a perfect duplicate of your own body but minus the techno-organic virus. I know you've spoken to your father about this. Rachel herself told him her entire plan. Interesting Nathan," Sinister said with a puzzled look. "I wonder why she didn't take _your_ essence and place it into Stryfe's perfectly healthy body? To possess this ability, yet leave a defenseless baby, her own brother no less, in a body ravaged by a terrible virus seems unusually cruel. To also knowingly condemn Stryfe an innocent baby, to the childhood he endured under Apocalypse might have been even a crueler fate than your own. 

"She did what she had to do," Cable said harshly. "Rachel and I lived when that bastard's plans were realized," he added with a wild- eyed expression. "You know better than most what Apocalypse plans for the future are." 

"Indeed I do," Sinister said earnestly. "Yet you would condemn my actions and excuse or justify your sister's when our objectives were the same and our methods virtually indistinguishable. But you expect me to be contrite and apologize for my actions -- beg for forgiveness maybe?" 

_Sinister was Satan, Daniel Webster, and every Philadelphia lawyer all wrapped into one nasty package,_ Cable thought. "You're twisting the truth again," Cable said sneering. 

"Am I?" Sinister responded sharply. "You don't even know the truth." 

"And I'm going to get the truth from you?!" Cable laughed humorlessly. 

"Think for a change Nathan. Try to pierce the veneer of hatred you hold for me listen to what I am saying," Sinister said with a piercing look. "Why did Rachel bring your parents forward in time? Why risk their lives in a world infinitely more dangerous than our own present. Did you ever consider why she didn't decide to create two, or even three Nathan Dayspring clones?" Sinister went on unrelentingly. "Why not create a clone to house your soul, another to 'trap' Apocalypse, and yet another to fight along side you?" 

"I...I don't know," Cable said with the tiniest bit of doubt creeping into his voice. "I'm sure she had her reasons." 

"Not her reasons..._my_ reasons," Sinister said coldly. 

That stopped Cable dead in his tracks. Even after his father had filled him in on all that had transpired when Rachel had brought both Scott and Jean into the future, -- the future where as Redd and Slym they had raised him, where for the first and only time in his life he had felt genuinely happy, and even normal, -- even then he had questioned the logic or even the sanity of his sister's plan. 

Stab his eyes, he had asked the same questions, had the same doubts that Sinister had just voiced. In a discussion with Scott once over this very same subject, Scott had reluctantly admitted that he had his suspicions that Rachel had never told them the whole truth. Rachel knew what Nathan would be forced to endure...what Stryfe would become and how many people that maniac would torture and kill. Rachel flonqing knew, yet she had gone ahead with her plans anyway. 

There were so many conflicting thoughts and emotions going through his head. He also remembered that Scott had told him that he was eternally grateful for the time they spent together raising him, and he and Jean wouldn't have traded anything for that time. He had echoed those sentiments to Scott -- to his father, he mentally corrected himself. He had at least tried to tell his father how he felt about that time -- in his own clumsy way. 

Through all the trials and tribulations he had been through, it was _that_ time in his life that had centered him. Whenever he had grown despondent, tired of his fight, tired of his life, tired of seeing everyone around him die -- and those times had been too many to count. It was his time with Redd and Slym that he remembered and drew strength from, allowing him endure, allowing him to go on. He had told his father that without him and Jean, he would never have made it. His father, a man known for expressing very little emotion, -- his father's eyes had brimmed with tears. Cable guessed he wasn't as bad as he thought with conveying how he felt after all. 

But if Sinister was involved...if this was somehow one of _his_ plans. _Jesus flonqing Christ Rachel,_ he thought. Rachel had made a deal with the devil. 

"Oh how your sister agonized over the decisions she had to make," Sinister said, sensing that some understanding was dawning on Cable. "Condemning you to the future that she knew would be in store for you, leaving your parents childless, leaving you as a defenseless babe in a ghastly future ruled by a madman. Finally, using Stryfe knowing how millions would suffer at his hands." 

"How did she know?" Cable rasped, the words tasting like bile in his mouth. The question had come grudgingly. He knew asking the question meant that he was slowly beginning to buy into what Sinister was saying, and Sinister would know it. 

"I told her," Sinister simply responded. "She sought me out Nathan knowing full well that only I could help her defeat Apocalypse. She was desperate. You've spoken to your father. The Askani were all but defeated, a rag tag group of war-weary refugees. They had no chance." 

"I'm sure Rachel was desperate," Cable said, his jaw clenched like a vice. "That's your favorite type of person, isn't it Sinister? You can smell desperation like a lion smells blood on a wounded prey animal. Make's people careless, foolhardy. She'd do anything you wanted," Cable said, his eyes exuding black fury. 

"You persist in clouding your mind with misguided anger," Sinister levelly met Cable's gaze. "I gave your sister exactly what she asked. She needed a way to kill Apocalypse." 

Cable's expression remained unchanged. 

"You still do not understand," Sinister said firmly. "Your sister had neither the technology nor the resources to create the required clones. They didn't know how Nathan...but I did," Sinister snapped. 

"How is that possible?" Cable said disbelievingly. "Their technology was thousands of years ahead of where it is now." 

"Indeed it was, but not in the field of genetics," Sinister responded. "The world leaders outlawed genetic research and in particular cloning not too far off in our own future. You better than most understand the sensitivity of the general public to tampering with the genes of humans and mutants, especially after the incidents with mutates in Genosha and the Prime Sentinels. Genetics was a dead and forgotten field." 

"You mean to tell me you've never once wondered where Rachel obtained the material 2,000 years in the future to create clones of your parents?" Sinister asked. 

"She...Rachel said she had the Askani sisterhood gather the material from Scott and Jean's descendants. 

Sinister had a dubious expression on his face. "I assure you Nathan that it is quite impossible to create clones of your parents to house their essences from their descendents. Furthermore to create a clone is actually as much art as it is science. If that were the case, if the process was easy to duplicate, I would have created a thousand Nathan Daysprings and even Apocalypse...well I don't think I have to spell it out," Sinister said with an arrogant smile. 

"What about your Marauder's?" Cable asked. You seem to cookie cutter those bastards out in quantity." 

"Cloning some of my _associates_ is more difficult than it appears, and they are much _less_ than what you are Nathan. Simply put, the more powerful the mutant, the infinitely more complex the cloning process is. And if you're wondering, your parents looked different by design. I simply tweaked a few genes to change their appearances so they would not be recognized by Apocalypse should they have met face to face. I sometimes am a bit overcautious...a harmless idiosyncrasy of mine," Sinister said as if he were privy to an inside joke. 

"She also told you that your parents original bodies would have never survived the time jump. But Sanctity, the last member of the Askani sisterhood, managed to transport your parents back in time -- to the time of my _transformation,_ in their original bodies. Don't you find that odd Nathan? Your sister, a full blooded Summers, still possessing vestiges of the Phoenix force, was unable to do the same." 

"Sanctity had to maintain their bodies in that time period for only forty eight hours Sinister. Scott and Jean spent years with me in the future," Cable responded quickly. 

"Please Nathan," Sinister's expression was one of barely restrained tolerance. "There are perhaps one or two other human beings that understand temporal mechanics as well as I do. Think of your experience as an example," his tone one of admonishment. "Rachel brought you forward two-thousand years into the future in your _own_ disease ravaged body, -- as a baby no less without any difficulty what-so-ever. You stayed in the future for many years. The duration of your stay had absolutely no bearing on your survival as you can attest to. 

Cable seemed to hold his breath for an instant, and then exhaled slowly, a pensive mien shadowing his battle-creased face. "So Rachel never created the clones at all," he replied with undisguised effort. "She didn't have the necessary material, the facilities, or even the no how," Cable said, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That would mean... 

"I created the clones here in our present, her past, and Rachel transported all three clones to her future." 

"But whose plan was it...?" 

"As I said before, mine," Sinister said firmly. "You see Nathan, your sister brought you to the future in the hopes that she could do something about arresting the virus. Nothing more. It was a desperate gamble, a gamble that would have failed had your sister not gotten the idea to contact me." 

"Although I created the virus," Sinister continued, "Apocalypse somehow altered the virus in a way -- in a way that I didn't think was possible. At the time, I was unable to discern a method with which to cure you. But I did communicate a way to impede or master the virus to a manageable degree." 

"But why would Rachel risk Scott and Jean...it doesn't make any sense." 

"It does make sense, or it made sense to Rachel at least," Sinister said with something in his voice that hinted at compassion. "As I said before, Apocalypse had decimated the humans and even many mutants of that time. Rachel foresaw the inevitable. She could not beat Apocalypse. When your sister came to me Nathan, her spirit was broken. She was weary of the responsibility, tired of the death and carnage around her. She wanted an end to it all, but she also wanted revenge. She wanted Apocalypse dead at any cost, enough in fact to _even_ solicit my help. She wanted me to devise a method to kill Apocalypse." 

"Stryfe," Cable said simply. 

"Yes Nathan," Sinister agreed. "But it had nothing to do with Stryfe being your clone. Buried deep and unrecognizable in Stryfe's genetic make-up, I encoded a time bomb of sorts...a bomb that would recognize Apocalypse's foul essence, and destroy the body he was inhabiting." 

Cable found himself not questioning the validity of what Sinister had just told him because...because using a baby as bait, bait that would be placed for years right under the nose of the most heinous tyrant this world would ever see...bait that would be raised to use its great mutant powers in the most horribly conceived of ways. That type of patient connivance, devoid of any traces of humanity, was not something his sister would ever be capable of. His father had suspected. Only one mind was capable of that type of machination. 

Cable smiled mirthlessly. "Your plan Sinister," he acknowledged. 

"And why Scott and Jean?" Sinister asked, replying to Cable's unanswered question. That was your sister's idea -- or more her desire. When she attended your mother and father's wedding(2), she wanted to give them something special...she read your father's mind. There she saw her father's greatest desire, his thoughts of you Nathan, even on his wedding day. He wanted what every man and woman in love want, to raise a family together. Scott wanted the woman he loved to share in the joys of raising you, even as unlikely a dream as that was, especially coming from someone as pragmatic as your father. Rachel could not help but want to grant her father's deepest and fondest wish -- and she also knew what it would mean to you." 

_That sounded more like Rachel,_ Cable thought pityingly. God how was she able to cope, alone with the fate of two worlds on her shoulders? "You don't do charity Sinister," Cable said suddenly, his mood changing thinking about Sinister's motivation. "What did you ask for in return for all your _help?"_ Cable asked not trying to hide his cynicism. 

Sinister chuckled dryly. "Your misanthropic attitude brings to mind a small bit of writing by H.L. Mencken. 'A man who, when he smells flowers, looks around for a coffin.'" 

"You haven't answered my question," Cable said in a clipped tone. 

"I asked for knowledge of the future, " Sinister answered with a tight-lipped smile. 

Cable's brow knitted in thought. "The future? Why would she need to ask you about what happened?" Cable asked suddenly returning to an earlier claim of Sinister's. "When I asked you about how Rachel knew about what would happen to me and Stryfe, you said that you told her. All of those things would have already happened -- and been part of her past." 

Sinister smiled. The smile seemed different to Cable...almost genuine. "An excellent question Nathan. You have an underrated analytical mind. If the very act of traveling to the past or the future creates another separate and distinct timeline, then who is to say Rachel's past is your present, or will be your future? At one time I believed that time travel would always result in the formation of an alternate or different universe. Now I'm not so sure." 

To Cable, those words sounded alien coming from a scientist of Sinister's caliber...and arrogance. "What do you mean you're not sure?" 

"This is admittedly a perplexing subject," Sinister sighed. "Some of your scientists argue conservatively that time travelers don't change the past; they were always part of it. On the other hand, paradoxical though this sounds, a version of the many-worlds theory of quantum mechanics devised by another of your physicists might allow such history-changing visits. In this picture, there are many interlacing world histories, so that if you went back in time and killed your grandmother when she was a young girl, this would cause space-time to simply branch off into a new parallel universe that doesn't interfere with the familiar one. There is direct evidence of the latter. You yourself are intimately familiar with this theory." 

Sinister continued. "One of the United States leading physicists, Stephen Hawkings has addressed the problem in a different way, proposing what he calls a chronology-protection conjecture. He argues, the laws of physics must always conspire to prevent travel into the past. He believes that quantum effects, coupled with other constraints, will always step in to prevent time travel in ones own universe. I agree. The universe isn't stupid or suicidal. With the number of sentient species that have reached the technological level to build a device capable of time travel, in this galaxy alone would conservatively number in the thousands. Think Nathan, a thousand different species capable of time travel -- the number of paradoxes that would result if that travel were possible in ones own universe. It would take only one paradox, and everything we know would be undone. Yet here we stand having this conversation when we both are aware of several such journeys through time. One could only conclude that time travel in ones own universe is impossible." 

"Time flows in one direction only, and we flow with it like corks bobbing helplessly in the river." Sinister said with a measure of finality. 

"Really?" Cable said with an annoyed tone. "Then how the flonq do you explain how this cork," Cable said pointing to himself -- "has jumped in and out of the river at different points?" 

"That my dear Nathan _is_ the conundrum," Sinister said arching his eyebrows. "Let me tell you something that might even surprise you some more. There is only one _real_ universe, one true timeline." 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Cable asked more confused than angry. "You just said there must countless alternate timelines and universes because of all the time travel that must have gone on -- or be going on, " Cable added. 

"Indeed I did," Sinister responded. "But only one real one," he repeated. "The others exist for a time, a relatively short time and fade from existence. The other timelines are just pale echoes of our own timeline." 

"You sound so sure about this. How can you be positive that what you just said is correct," Cable challenged. 

"I was told by someone whose scientific acumen dwarfs my own," Sinister admitted. "Even he, his entire race, were ignorant of this fact until recently." 

"Entire race?" Cable asked. 

"It matters not. What matters is that you have done the impossible Nathan -- you have traveled forwards and backwards in your own timeline with no ill effects. There are greater forces at work here than even _I_ could have conceived." 

"I don't understand." 

"Your understanding of such things isn't required," Sinister said bluntly. He then went on more gently as if he regretted his words. "You are not alone Nathan. Despite what you may have believed or believe still -- since I learned of his existence, his purpose, only I have truly carried the banner against Apocalypse. Everything else -- a charade." 

Cable said nothing. He was still absorbing everything Sinister had just told him. 

Sinister opened a tesseract, his back to Cable. "You may aid me in this cause. You are aware of what I plan with the help of a few of your friends." 

"You couldn't stop me," Cable answered sharply. Just for the record, despite everything you said, I still think it's a mistake throwing in with you." 

"A mistake?" Sinister turned, his red-lit eyes glowed eerily even with a bright sun overhead. 

"Oh that's right, I guess you've never made any mistakes," Cable said bitterly. 

A shadow quickly passed over Sinister's face. He looked at Cable as if he was staring at him from a deep dark pit. Cable suddenly felt his blood run cold. "One mistake," Sinister said slowly, separating and drawing out each word. 

He then turned and walked into the nothingness of tesseract space, disappearing from view, leaving Cable to wonder at everything that had just transpired. 

* * *

**References**:  
[1]The Rise of Apocalypse #1  
[2]X-Men #30  



	9. Chapter 8

A TEST OF POWER

**BY DR**

Chapter 8

Everywhere there is one principle of justice,  
which is the interest of the stronger.  
  


Plato  
The Republic, ca. 390 B.C.

_The present_

He might have been a tourist, or a laborer, or just an average resident of the city out for an afternoon walk -- his appearance divulged nothing remarkable. In his present guise, no one could possibly surmise that the mutant tyrant Apocalypse walked among them. It was even less likely that they could deduce that he was enjoying the beautiful day as much as they did -- possibly even more. 

With senses both common with those around him, and with perceptions rare even among the most powerful mutants, Apocalypse was thoroughly invigorated by his surroundings. The basis for his enjoyment was because he possessed a visual acuity beyond the norm, and could see the humans that inhabited this city -- truly see them. 

Long ago, he found that he could attune his senses and observe those around him and distinguish that they were not just flesh and blood creatures, but beings of energy and light. A more devout individual or even someone with a finite lifespan might have attributed some divine significance to this. Apocalypse supposed that this could be called wishful thinking. After all, the existence of a soul would have been the confirmation of eternal life and it had been his experience that the vast majority of humanity wanted to -- _continue_. 

He had ample opportunity to observe many of the Egyptian priests during the early part of his life, and listen to them espouse nothing but self-serving nonsense. The narrow minded fools were too dogmatic to even acknowledge other views. Apocalypse believed that most theologians were alike, and if they could see what he saw...it would have been all the proof they believed they needed to triumph over more secular thinkers in their age old debate. But Apocalypse saw no omnipotent or heavenly connection at all. Because of one of his own specific mutant abilities, he thought of the human spirit as simply something that powered the human machine, a battery of sorts. He held more steadfast to this opinion after he found out that he could also feel and experience this anima, even making it a part of himself...greatly augmenting his own power. Perhaps it was just the physical manifestation of that abstract concept that represented life. 

Apocalypse would never be confused as a philosopher, but he had a perspective and abilities at his disposal that all the great sages could only dream of. As long as he had been alive, he never tired of seeing it, -- the human spirit, this heart of consciousness. His appreciation of that transcendental beauty never wavered or lessened. And in a densely populated city, he gladly immersed himself in that ambient pulchritude. 

He could also turn his _minds eye_ inward, and see and control every aspect of his being, down to the smallest components -- the fundamental building blocks of matter. He was even able to control anything that he consumed or his body broke down and metabolized -- anything that became a part of him he could control. With every inhalation, air molecules would be broken into its constituents, once part of him, they would respond to his direction. Energy was available to him in such great quantities because of his mutant ability, and Apocalypse relished his control of this enormous amount of power. 

During the first few years that Sinister had worked for Apocalypse, Sinister's curiosity about Apocalypse's mutation was boundless. Exposed to undreamed of science and technology in Apocalypse's employ, Sinister had all the tools to aid him in his relentless quest for knowledge. He had asked an endless stream of questions -- What did Apocalypse see with his minds eye? How was he able to grow to such proportions? Where did the great energies he could manifest come from? 

Apocalypse was no fool. He recognized that Sinister was not a common lap dog and would eventually attempt use any information he learned against Apocalypse. That was one of the reasons why he had chosen him. He wanted someone who could not be broken -- someone with a strength of will that approached his own, and he was not disappointed. Sinister was truly brilliant and had exceeded all of Apocalypse's expectations. In his relatively short life span, he had tried to kill Apocalypse several times. 

But the threat that Sinister posed to Apocalypse, was overshadowed by his curiosity about his own mutation. Apocalypse himself simply did not know what he was. So he answered a great majority of Sinister's questions, and Sinister in turn with tireless research and with the aid of Celestial equipment, was able to deduce much about the nature of matter and how that related to Apocalypse's mutation. Sinister was incredibly able to accomplish this in just a few short months. 

Sinister had explained to an incredulous Apocalypse that solid matter, what we stand on, what bears the weight of a mountain, is actually empty space. Sinister described that what Apocalypse saw with his minds eye were atoms and the smaller constituents that comprised all atoms were sub-atomic particles. These particles revolved around the center or nucleus much the same way planets revolved around the sun. To illustrate this void, he said that if we could scale the nucleus of an atom to four inches, the surrounding electron cloud would be several miles away and the gap between, nothing but gloriously empty space. The solidity of iron is actually 99.9999999999999 percent vacuous space made to feel solid by ethereal fields of force having no material reality at all. It was that ethereal field of force, that binding energy, that Apocalypse could snap like a rubber band releasing a colossal burst of energy. Even that imprisoned energy, suddenly liberated, its desire for entropy finally realized, was submissive to Apocalypse's will and obeyed his every whim. 

Apocalypse clearly remembered when Sinister had calculated the strength of these bonds, quantified the energy. His expression was one of awe and respect for what Apocalypse could control -- and wisely one of fear. The shear magnitude of power that Apocalypse literally had at his fingertips was almost unimaginable. Almost a half a century later, a few human physicists would demonstrate this power , by showing the world the destructive might of splitting the atom. 

Apocalypse turned down a quiet street leaving the crowds behind and immediately noticed a marked change in his surroundings. The affluence in this area was palpable and the buildings were untainted by weather or pollutants. Even the cobblestone streets were scrubbed clean, the surface smooth, making the dull color gleam in the midday sun. This section of the city had changed very little over the past fifty years yet still looked brand new. It had escaped much of the necessary rebuilding that just about all of London had gone through due to Hitler's relentless V-2 rocket salvos. The pristine condition and upkeep of this area was a direct testament to the reach and longevity of the Hellfire Club. 

Apocalypse stopped in front of a particularly extravagant mansion. He smiled to himself and thought, _those who believed that the protection afforded to them by membership within this group that symbolized affluence, excess, and power -- they would soon learn the true meaning of power. Money was their refuge, but history had shown more often than not that a safe haven proved to be a target more often than a sanctuary._

He walked up the burnished marble steps to the two large mahogany doors, its ornately carved surface polished clean belaying its age and exposure to the elements. He grasped the ornamental door handle, noticing even its superior quality, and walked into a large opulent lobby. Aged paintings that appeared to be original art adorned the walls. Finely detailed sculptures sat atop multiple pedestals and were scattered about giving the room more of the feel of an art museum than a simple reception area. The room's sole occupant was a striking young woman who sat behind an antique desk, but the desktop by contrast was covered with the modern technology of the day. 

"May I help you sir?" she asked, greeting him with a warm smile. She lightly tapped the keyboard of her computer, long fingers with finely manicured nails were ready to input a name to confirm an appointment. 

Apocalypse ignored her, and headed directly to a set of closed doors, which were partially obscured behind a spiral staircase that led to another level. 

"Sir, that area is off limits." Her voice lost all of its warmth and contained a commanding tone that was surprising for someone of her age. 

She reached under the table and other doors immediately opened almost in tandem with her movement. Five heavily armed men entered the room openly brandishing firearms. 

"Get away from that door buddy," the lead man barked. "You're on private property and we're authorized to use lethal force." 

Apocalypse continued to head towards the doors, heedless of the security teams orders. 

"Can you believe this asshole? Johnson, shoot him in the leg." The leader said it loud enough to perhaps dissuade the intruder from going any further. The man hadn't even turned around let alone stopped. As the intruder reached the door, Johnson fired his nine-millimeter handgun once, aiming for the man's calf. He was certain that he hit the trespasser exactly where he had aimed, but the man exhibited no reaction at all. 

It was quite possible that the man possessed some type of body armor the team leader quickly assessed. But his instincts told him that this wasn't a human covered in armor. "We've probably got us a mutant here, open up with everything you've got," he ordered. The entire team began shooting, concentrating their fire on the man's head as they had been trained to do. 

Bullets struck the intended target but were deflected and ricocheted all around the room as Apocalypse reached locked doors. He drove his hands into the small juncture between the two heavy oak doors, and somehow gained a purchase and casually tore them both off the steel hinges. The doors hit the floor with a deafening crash, indicative of their weight as well as the great strength of the intruder. He passed through the doorway which led to a long corridor, completely indifferent to the screams coming from the room he had just exited. 

"Cease firing," the team leader screamed. He quickly glanced around the room and saw that the receptionist and two of his men were either wounded or dead. His suspicions about the nature of the intruder were unfortunately confirmed. He reached into a shirt pocket and pressed a button on a communication device designed for just this contingency. It immediately informed other forces that a hostile mutant or super-powered being had entered the premises. 

Apocalypse unhurriedly walked down the hallway seemingly oblivious to any resistance or pursuit he might encounter. At the end of the corridor, four men stepped into view. Three of the men were armed with some type of energy rifle. The fourth man carried no visible weapon but was clearly in charge as the other men trailed a few paces behind him. 

"Pierce, isn't it?" Apocalypse demanded more than asked. 

"Yup," Pierce answered not sounding all that surprised. "Are you a member of my fan club because I don't know you? So why don't you tell me who you are and why you're here so my trigger happy friends don't barbeque your ass for lunch." 

Apocalypse continued his deliberate pace down the hallway disregardful of Pierce's warning. 

"Well I gave it a try," Pierce said smiling, satisfied with his effort. "You see my talkative friend, I really don't give a damn about what you want or who you are." 

"That's unfortunate," the intruder rumbled. "If you knew who I was, you would leave this place, possibly with your life -- and maybe with your head intact." 

Pierce felt a chill run through him at the man's boldness considering his circumstances. "Waste this bastard," Pierce said through clenched teeth. 

All three men fired their energy weapons simultaneously, striking their target squarely in the chest. The man's march forward was not altered in direction or pace. There wasn't even a burn mark on the man's jacket. All three men looked to Pierce, similar expressions of disbelief on their faces. 

Pierce watched as the man's hand suddenly changed shape transforming into something that resembled oversized metal gardening shears. Then more swiftly than Pierce could imagine the man's arm lengthened and shot across the distance that separated them. He barely had time to raise his robotic arm in order to deflect the attack. The man's arm smashed through Pierce's attempt to defend himself and he was knocked painfully into one of the walls. Staggered by the impact, it took him a moment to fully determine what had occurred. 

Pierce was wide eyed with terror as he found himself pinned against the wall and felt the cutting edge of the shears slice into his neck. Panic-stricken and screaming like a frightened child, he attempted to pry the scissored fingers apart to keep them from severing his neck. Pierce looked down the barrel of an absurd looking arm, its out of proportion length almost comical. But there was nothing comical about the cold and aloof eyes boring into his own, without a shred of compassion or mercy. Pierce suddenly realized with crystal clarity that there would be none for him -- he was a dead man. The pain and his voice reached a crescendo and mercifully for Pierce, everything went suddenly dark. 

The three security men stood transfixed for a moment as the telescoping arm shot by them ramming into Pierce. Pierce's neck was wedged between two prongs that were somehow attached or part of the man's arm, and were stuck in the wall trapping him there. He clawed futilely trying to extricate himself but only succeeded in nicking and tearing his skin creating wounds which began to bleed profusely. His screams became higher and higher pitched as he realized that he could not escape. The horrified men watched as the razor-edged prongs slowly closed and a sound like the snapping of a wet towel preceded Pierce's head separating completely from his shoulders. Pierce's head hit the rug with a dull thump and rolled a fair distance before coming to a stop at the feet of Pierce's security team. The men, paralyzed by fear, could barely bring themselves to glance down at their feet. Pierce's head stared up at them with a terrified expression that mirrored their own . What was even more gruesome to the men was the sight of Pierce's headless body, still standing upright, while blood rhythmically fountained from his neck. Pierce's heart was still beating, as the remaining fluid in his body painted a red death shroud and cascaded down the wall. 

All three men dropped their weapons and ran in terror as the creature retracted its arm with barely a sound, and reformed suddenly to a very normal sized limb and ordinary looking hand. 

Apocalypse could sense two powerful mutants far beneath his present level. He reached down to what appeared to be a belt buckle shaped like a capital A, but was in reality a Celestial matter-energy transport device. He activated it and was conveyed to his desired location. 

He materialized in a large cavern, impressed by the size of this hidden facility under the streets of London. He chuckled to himself and wondered how many other people maintained secret bases under this city. 

Apocalypse knew that this was a training facility of sorts where the mutants in this clandestine organization could use, practice and hone unique abilities, unseen by the general populace. It was also used to house Sentinels. Apocalypse knew this because he was calmly standing beneath one at this very moment. But strangely enough the Sentinel was not what had his attention. Two paintings, conspicuously hung on a bare rock wall at eye level, were presently the focus of Apocalypse's scrutiny. 

Just then Sebastian Shaw and his personal assistant Tessa rounded a rock wall, and were both somewhat startled by his presence. Shaw quickly recovered and addressed the intruder coolly. "Do you like the paintings?" Shaw asked genuinely curious noticing the man's interest. "Forgive me, but judging from the preliminary reports I just received, you don't strike me as a lover of fine art. I assume," Shaw pointed to the roof of the cavern, "you're responsible for the disturbance upstairs." 

There was no reaction from the stranger. He hadn't even turned around in response to Shaw's question, seemingly engrossed at what he was looking at. He used the man's distraction to issue a few instructions to Tessa. 

"The one on the left is a favorite of mine. It's a Baroque period piece," Shaw explained. "You can tell by the extreme use of light and shadow," he continued enthusiastically. "The first piece of real art I ever possessed. The Return of the Prodigal Son, an original by Rembrandt Van Rijn. An original, like all my works of art," Shaw said with a tone and pompous smile that the rich universally used to assert their superiority over those they deemed inadequate. Shaw was only trying to provoke some type of reaction from the stranger, but he refused to acknowledge Shaw's presence. Shaw though, was not insulted. He found this all rather amusing, a welcome distraction. 

Tessa telepathically informed Shaw that she scanned some of the security personnel upstairs and that Pierce had been killed -- beheaded in fact. 

His face immediately lost its smug smile and was replaced by a grim and displeased expression. "Show me," Shaw said aloud. 

A low chuckle emerged from the stranger who spoke to Shaw for the first time. "Don't let what the mind-witch related to you ruin your good spirits. You asked about the paintings. Does the painting in some way remind you of your relationship with your father Jacob Shaw...before he became weak and died? Or perhaps it was a present from the late Senorita Chantel for certain...favors?"(1) 

Shaw's face flushed with indignation, his control slipping for a moment, and then just as quickly, he exerted a rigid control over his emotions. The stranger's voice -- disturbed Shaw on some level, an impossibly deep baritone that clearly was one of power. Through his link and without any delay, he instructed Tessa to alert Selene and have her join them immediately. He _saw_ how easily Pierce was dispatched and wanted Selene on hand before he disposed of this impudent intruder. 

"You seem well informed," Shaw said with a cruel edge in his voice. "You obviously have a particular interest in the details of _my_ past, why?" Shaw demanded threateningly. 

"It was the other painting that caught my eye," Apocalypse finally turned and faced Shaw completely ignoring Shaw's question. "A painting detailing the Salem witch trials Shaw? No doubt you feel some type of affinity between the persecution these people were subjected to and what mutants face today." 

"Perhaps," Shaw answered coolly. The stranger had an intensity about him which only added to his agitation. 

"Yet you have a pet Sentinel. How curious," Apocalypse said grinning broadly. 

It was Shaw's turn to ignore the man's question and goading tone. "Why do _you_ find this painting so fascinating?" 

"The six woman depicted in this painting, were all hung on Gallows Hill, the day before I was tried and convicted of witchcraft," Apocalypse answered. 

"You wear your age well," Shaw responded dubiously. "This was painted in 1693." 

"I refused to enter a plea to the charges of witchcraft leveled against me," Apocalypse answered disregarding Shaw's sarcasm. "The Sheriffs administered something called Piene Forte Et Durre -- pressing. I was stripped naked, a board was placed upon my chest, and then--while my neighbors watched--heavy stones and rocks were piled on the board. The pressing lasted for two days until I finally died. All in all, a very unpleasant and painful experience, -- and not very neighborly I might add" Apocalypse said, with a humorless smile. 

At that moment, Selene chose to make her entrance walking regally into their midst. She stopped abruptly and practically hissed at the intruder. 

Shaw readily observed that Selene's reaction was one of recognition, but also...fear? 

"Hello Selene," Apocalypse said and greeted her with a cold smile. 

Selene didn't answer but seemed to retreat into the shadows, almost putting Shaw between this man and herself. 

Shaw was not accustomed to being ignored and Selene and this man seemed to have each others undivided attention. Irritated, he turned to Selene. "Do you know this man?" 

"This isn't a man Sebastian. I'm not sure he's even a mutant," she spit out the words in contempt. "I don't know what _it_ is." She paused for a moment, regarding the cruel smile that had crept across the man's face in answer to her words. "He calls himself Apocalypse." 

Shaw straightened, regarding the man in front of him with some new respect and also with caution. "Of course. Yes I've heard of you. The immortal mutant, like Selene," Shaw said looking at both of them for an answer. Selene's eyes narrowed with suppressed fury at Shaw's comparison. 

Shaw signaled Tessa to scan Apocalypse and see why he was here -- see what he wanted. 

She had just started the scan when pain welled up into her like a surging tidal wave, sweeping her away. She immediately broke the telepathic scan or she could no longer function properly, Tessa didn't know which. She had actually stopped thinking and there was no longer an iota of coherent thought in her mind -- only the pain. She was unaware that she was tearing at her body in an attempt to rid herself of the overwhelming agony that infused every crevice, every nerve ending of her body. 

Shaw watched as Tessa's body crumpled immediately after he had given the order for her to scan Apocalypse. A small snarl of agony escaped her lips and then she lost the ability to make any sound as her body and limbs twisted and contorted, writhing on the cave floor. Shaw saw the contents of her stomach spill out of her mouth and _smelled_ that Tessa had lost all control of her bowels. She appeared to be gulping for air when her face blanched and she curled into a fetal position and appeared to be unconscious. 

"Please let me explain," Apocalypse offered in answer to Shaw's grim expression as he looked at Tessa. "I'd encountered a similar problem with a mutant much like your lovely associate. She is someone intimately known to your Hellfire Club as well -- the Phoenix, Jean Grey. Many years ago she employed a telepathic assault -- very much like your Tessa just did. Oh, I was able to repel her advances," he said with a cold smile. "But I was very impressed with this new martial ability and could see its uses -- and the necessity to develop ways to combat it. One such way was recalling specific episodes of pain." 

"You couldn't do that to Tessa with a memory," Shaw said but with a clear lack of conviction. 

"You're quite right Shaw. A poor description. Not a memory." Apocalypse paused for a moment and seemed to be collecting his thoughts. "Perhaps I can explain myself more clearly. Anyone who has had the misfortune of having a limb amputated can tell you how the missing limb continues to be felt -- in the brain. I actually witnessed this very thing. A former...colleague of mine, a Dr. Essex -- I believe you know him Shaw." 

Shaw just shook his head, confused. 

"Really? I was led to believe he commonly was in and out," Apocalypse paused seeming mildly amused -- "or visited your _Inner Circle_ quite often. No matter. You see Dr. Essex performed a number of amputations, all unnecessary of course, just to test this theory. He said that the brain has within it maps of the body that record every sensation onto the relevant body part. You don't feel anything with your hands or fingers, you feel with your mind. The entire reality," he gestured around him, "what we see and what we feel, what we smell and what we hear is mapped in the brain and then those recorded sensations reach out to our consciousness from within," he paused tapping the top of his head. "The cerebral cortex -- yes I am sure that was the name of the part of the brain Essex was referring to," Apocalypse said, nodding his head strangely, confirming his thoughts. "There is a reality out here, but everything we experience," he smiled, "arises inside our heads -- amazing really." 

"With Essex's help I learned to actually recreate physically those things in my mind, that map, the very nerve messages, truly feeling the pain at that time." He continued, grimly. "You can say pain and I are old friends. The very nature of my mutation is exquisitely painful." He laughed, a booming, terrifying sound. "I function quite normally, in agony. Others, who might find themselves in the vicinity of my mind, well...." he gestured towards Tessa. "Others find it a bit overwhelming," he chuckled frostily. 

Shaw was fascinated by the way Apocalypse had handled the attempt to telepathically scan him. If Apocalypse were to be believed -- excruciating pain as a defense. If Tessa's reaction or condition was any indication, a formidable defense at that. And what did it say about the person who adopted that defense of his accord and could function? What kind of willpower would that take? 

Something suddenly dawned on Shaw and he changed his tactics immediately. "My sources had informed me about a potential conflict involving many mutants led by Mr. Sinister. His conflict is with you. I hadn't thought much about it until now but that is why you're here, isn't it?" 

"I see no reason for our interests to conflicts," Shaw said amicably. As a matter of fact, it is rather obvious that an alliance would benefit us both. I recognize you as a man with unusual resources. I assure you that I can easily prove my worth as well." 

Apocalypse focused fully on Shaw for the first time, almost as if he were beneath his notice until Apocalypse deemed it appropriate to address him. 

"You misunderstand me Shaw. Even should you choose to side with Sinister, it would not tip the outcome in any fashion. No," Apocalypse drew the word out, and Shaw could feel the overtones of power build in the air around him. "It is unfortunate that I must use you as an example. Your death will send a message," he said pinning Shaw with a frightening stare. 

A machine mind that a moment ago was completely dormant, sprang to life, illuminating lifeless eyes bent on destruction. Preprogrammed objectives were being compared to data that was currently being fed to it by a vast array of external sensors. The bio-signatures of the mutants resident in the Hellfire Club mansion were all but invisible to the great machine. Apocalypse's bio-signature was not. 

Unlike many of the earlier model of Sentinels, this robot did not announce its intention to the mutants it had targeted for termination. Belying its enormous size, the Sentinel quickly closed its hand, while raising a single arm, and brought its fist crashing down towards one of the mutants. 

With his mind's eye, Apocalypse reached into his vast pool of stored resources, and began the conversion of energy to mass. A portion of this energy was diverted to his arm and hand, which was used to replicate the basic structure that was already there. His arm lengthened and thickened and his hand grew to a size that matched or exceeded the Sentinels hand. He strengthened the bonds between the molecules in his arm and hand, as well as the bonds between the atoms, bringing them closer together -- so close in fact that the density of his body exceeded any natural substance. If one had measured Apocalypse's mass a few nanoseconds ago and compared it to the mass he now possessed, they would have discovered that it had increased a thousand fold. 

Shaw had no intention of negotiating with Apocalypse. He had activated the Sentinel and knew it was programmed to ignore Selene but had special instructions to strike Shaw himself. He had hoped that this misdirection would have allowed the Sentinel endow him with super strength and invulnerability because of his mutant ability to absorb kinetic energy. Being struck by a five-ton arm at a considerable velocity would have imparted a sizable amount of energy to Shaw. He had no idea that Apocalypse would anticipate this action and take steps to prevent this. Obviously Apocalypse had come prepared with full knowledge of Shaw's mutant ability. 

Things happened so quickly it was almost impossible for the eye to follow. The Sentinel brought its fist down on Shaw's head. In a blur of motion or a blur due to Apocalypse's transformation, Apocalypse's oversized hand intercepted the Sentinels blow and Shaw remained untouched. Shaw was shocked as the detonation of sound occurred directly over his head due to the impact. He watched as the Sentinel's fist came to an abrupt stop as this feat flouted the laws of physics. At end of a long lever arm, Apocalypse should have been launched into the air by the impact. Despite the Sentinels vastly greater size, Shaw watched enthralled as Apocalypse's feet remained firmly rooted to the ground and the Sentinels arm buckled at its shoulder. 

Apocalypse's other arm again, blurred momentarily and morphed into a sharp blade. It extended, growing in length and width making a direct course for the Sentinels head. The spear-like appendage penetrated the Sentinels chin and met no resistance as it passed through and out the back its head. A short sharp electrical discharge and accompanying smell permeated the air. Red-lit eyes momentarily dimmed and then went completely out as the Sentinel fell backwards and crashed to the ground , a deafening sound of metal against rock echoed throughout the vast cavern. 

"Your trivial ploy would have made little difference Shaw. In a clash between the two of us," Apocalypse limbs returned to normal size, but he assumed the form that all his enemies were familiar with, "there can only be one outcome." 

Shaw braced himself for an attack. "Even _I_ find your boasting irritating," Shaw said with a challenging tone. 

Apocalypse did not advance on Shaw, instead, he just pointed his index finger at Shaw and wiggled it back and forth. 

Perplexed, Shaw sneered at Apocalypse. "Is that supposed...." Shaw suddenly felt his legs go numb and he collapsed to the ground. He had no feeling in his legs and despite repeated attempts, he could not stand. 

"I've severed certain nerves at the base of your spine that control everything below your waist," Apocalypse supplied. 

"You what?" Shaw exclaimed with a saucer-eyed stare. 

"Your mutant power is very formidable Shaw. Although in no way could you have withstood or absorbed the amount of punishment I am capable of administering. I must admit that I rather enjoyed this subtle approach. I simply reduced the breadth of my finger to a few molecules in width. Just enough to cut the nerves and impart next to zero kinetic energy due to the negligible mass." 

Apocalypse waved his finger again. Shaw grunted, his look of apprehension changed to outright horror. 

"I can't see, I can't see! What have you done to me you crazy bastard?" Shaw cried out hysterically, spittle flying in all directions. "Selene, help me. Selene? Answer me you bitch!" he said, a mixture of fear and rage overlaying his words. He reached for her, his hands quivering. 

Apocalypse did not even look at Selene. It was almost an open invitation for her to do something to help Shaw. Selene remained where she was. 

"I've severed both your optic nerves. Believe me when I say I take little pleasure in this," Apocalypse said with brutal detachment. "What I have done to you is for others to see -- and understand." 

"Please," Shaw begged. "I'll give you anything," his voice degenerated into a guttural rasp. 

Shaw's pleading disgusted Apocalypse. "You deserve much worse," Apocalypse said with undisguised distaste. With that, Apocalypse severed the major arteries leading to his brain. Sebastian Hiram Shaw, Black King of the Hellfire Club, fell forward. The king was dead. 

Selene watched at how easily Shaw had been dispatched. Long ago, she had heard of Apocalypse, and had sought him out to subdue him to her will. His actual presence here brought back the unpleasant memories of how he had humiliated her. He had beaten her quickly, effortlessly -- but for some unknown reason allowed her to live. Apocalypse had arrogantly shrugged of her attempts to hurt him indifferently, much as an adult would restrain a small child. It had been the first time she had suffered a defeat and Apocalypse had achieved it so easily. At the time, it had galled her to no end. After many years, she had learned to accept this ignominious defeat especially since she had escaped with her life. Then and there though, she knew that she had to avoid this creature any way she could. Selene believed that the old adage that there was always _someone_ stronger or more powerful than you -- she believed that the someone that was being referred to was Apocalypse. 

She momentarily froze as cold eyes regarded her once more. She recovered quickly and with intricate arm and hand movements, gathered vast arcane energy about her. "It shall not be as easy to best me this time monster. I have learned much and have grown in power," Selene said, and stuck out her chin in defiance. 

Apocalypse regarded her for a moment before speaking. "Indeed." 

With that one word, it was clear that he believed her -- his tone not mocking, but one of respect. 

"You have undeniably supplemented your already considerable power," Apocalypse said with candid appreciation. "But I have no quarrel with you Selene. My purpose was to kill Shaw only." 

Selene neither relaxed her guard or allowed her defensive energies to wane. But she was curious. 

"Why Shaw?" she asked. 

"There are those who foolishly wish me dead. An army of mutants is being assembled to finally put an end to me," Apocalypse chuckled, the sound even disturbed Selene. 

"Shaw would have been enlisted. This," Apocalypse said pointing to Shaw's inert body, "is just a personal message to his would be employer. I suggest you take note of the content of this message, should you yourself be contacted," Apocalypse's tone, had suddenly turned ominous. "See to it that none of your External brethren participate in the upcoming conflict." Apocalypse took a threatening step towards her. "I will not be as swift or merciful as I was with Shaw," he said with one last withering glare, and disappeared. 

Selene had no intention of siding with Sinister against Apocalypse. Sinister was a madman if he thought he could challenge Apocalypse and win. And those Sinister was recruiting -- as far as she was concerned, they were dead already. She had not lived all these years solely because of her mutant powers. 

She glanced down at Shaw and didn't feel an ounce of remorse. His unexpected demise left a noticeable void in the leadership of the Inner Circle. Yet strangely enough, Selene's lack of compassion was not because this new opportunity would help sate her considerable appetite for more power. No -- her only thought was that she was glad that Apocalypse had come for Shaw, and not her.   


* * *

Sinister watched as Shaw's bio-signature winked out indicating that he was dead, although Sinister's presence wasn't necessary. Like many of his devices, it was automated and the data on Shaw's demise would have been waiting for him to evaluate at his convenience. 

The information was not unexpected. Apocalypse was obviously aware of Sinister's _overt_ machinations and Shaw's death was no more than Apocalypse's show of recognition. The target had been a carefully selected one as well. Sinister's indirect connection to Shaw's family made him more of a personal target. But for Apocalypse to take any action at all was almost a show of appreciation. In many ways Apocalypse was quite predictable. 

There were still many more pieces to be moved into place before he felt he could successfully execute his plan. He believed for the moment Apocalypse would allow him the time to assemble the necessary combatants. Apocalypse would no doubt welcome the challenge, welcome the test of his own power. 

Sinister began his review of the next candidate -- the next _sacrificial lamb_ to insure the realization his plan. 

**References**:  
[1]X-Men the Hellfire Club #4  


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Back || Next 


	10. Chapter 9

Note; _This chapter contains some harsh language._

* * *

A TEST OF POWER

**BY DR**

Chapter 9

Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom.   
It is the argument of tyrants; it is the creed of slaves.  
  


William Pitt  
1783

_The present_

He opened his eyes and blinked a few times to bring his surroundings into focus. His eyes adjusted rapidly to the soft and diffuse lighting, which didn't seem to come from any particular source. A disturbingly familiar antiseptic smell wafted into his nostrils informing that he was in a medical infirmary. Remy immediately broke out in a cold sweat recalling the loss of his limbs, and an icy mist enveloped his heart when he remembered just _whose_ medical facility he was in. 

"You're awake. How do you feel?" a detached voice inquired from the corner of the room. 

He turned his head and felt his skin blossom with goose pimples as Mr. Sinister wraith-like, entered his field of vision and approached him. He forced his expression to remain impassive as he tried to conceal his dread. He gritted his teeth as clinical hands performed a proficient evaluation of his condition. 

The memory of the past few months assaulted his senses and he felt his stomach lurch as it always did when he awoke from these periods of prolonged slumber. Sinister had told him that one of the devices used to repair his injuries, put him in a kind of healing trance to optimize his recovery. He would sleep deeply and undisturbed for days. One of the side effects, if it could even be categorized as such, was some disorientation when first waking -- a brief amnesia of sorts. He supposed it was a fair trade-off -- fresh newborn terror every time he awoke in the boogey man's torture chamber, in exchange for the return of his limbs. 

Gambit could feel the knot in his stomach tighten as he remembered other things as well -- screams, blood, terror, regret, shame, and betrayal. 

Like countless times before, his thoughts returned to the same seemingly life defining episode. In the vein of an endless movie reel, he was helpless to prevent his mind from replaying the sequence of events -- the succession of sins that led to his own private damnation. 

He could never forgive himself for what happened in the tunnels that day. The fact that he had assembled the team, that he had been present during the carnage, that he had kept silent about his _participation_ to his teammates and closest friends. All this contributed to the guilt and revulsion he felt about himself, the self-loathing that had consumed him like a cancer for all these years. 

But maybe more than anything else, it was what he had done afterwards -- immediately following the massacre that humiliated him most of all. _Nothing_. The great Remy Lebeau, the bold and daring master thief, had done absolutely nothing. 

He certainly hadn't done anything to bring Sinister to justice. His own involvement may have had something to do with that and alerting the authorities, what good it would have done anyway, wasn't exactly his style. But he didn't even make a single attempt to find Sinister -- quite frankly, he hadn't even considered pursuing Sinister at all. Not a single thought about confronting him about being used in such a way. Not a single thought about seeking retribution -- let alone trying to hold him accountable for the murders he had perpetrated. Why? 

Yes, he was a different man back then. He wasn't a member of the X-Men, but he was still a _man_. And if double-crossed, a man with considerable resources, talents, and mutant powers -- a man to be feared. But he had never come across anyone like Sinister before. A man who seemed to know everything about him, who could outreach him mentally, physically, without any effort at all. Even his _edge_, his mutant powers, were useless against him. 

There was only one reason that he had not gone after Sinister. _Fear_. That fear coupled with a mix of helplessness against Sinister -- those two things fed each other, leaving him a virtual cripple. 

But stranger still, a part of him -- a part of him had felt he had done the right thing. He was able to admit that to himself, but had never been able to voice those thoughts aloud -- not to anyone else, not even Rogue. Even after absorbing his memories, she had never sensed that feeling because he had buried it so deep. He _had_ done the right thing...the only thing he could have done. But how could he take..._pride,_ if that was even the right word, let alone speak of it considering the heartache and grief he had experienced over the massacre. Maybe it was this small sense of pride -- maybe that was what he was ashamed of most of all. 

Remy sighed inwardly. Only _he_ could feel such a deep sense of self-recrimination and pride about the same thing. Or maybe he had associated himself with nothing more than thieves and assassins for so many years, he had just lost sight of the truth. 

But he _truly_ hadn't known that the group he had put together were going to carry out the wanton slaughter of innocents. Sinister had said that he only wanted to kidnap a few of them for the purposes of study, to find out more about mutants.(1) If he had known Sinister's true purpose...if he had just known, he would have done anything to prevent it. Hadn't he tried to stop them and almost lost his life in the process? Hadn't he saved the life of a little girl? What more could he or _anyone_ for that matter have done differently? Hadn't he spent the rest of his life trying to atone for his sins? Wasn't he worthy of some type of redemption? 

So what -- he hadn't gone after Sinister. Who in their right mind would have? It would have been suicide to try that alone. Hadn't he fought against Sinister, and villains just like him, with all his heart when he had the X-Men along side him? 

He had wanted to scream this -- couldn't his teammates see this for themselves? Hadn't they finally realized he was trapped, played like a fool at a point in his life when he had nowhere and nobody to turn to? 

Yes, he had sold his soul to the devil, but only because this particular devil was the one person that could provide him with what he so desperately needed. But he couldn't bring himself to force this on his friends -- confess how he felt. What would have been the use? After they were in possession of _most_ of this information, they should have come to this realization themselves. Yet his teammates -- his friends had condemned him -- and left him to die. He had thought he could never descend any further, and never feel as despondent as he had after witnessing the slaughter. He had taken the first steps towards surrender in the tunnels that day and when Rogue and the rest of the team had left him in that frozen wasteland, he had finally given up -- he truly had wanted to die. 

And then...and then he had woken up in Sinister's lab, a quadruple amputee. There he discovered the _real_ meaning of terror, and shamefully recalled screaming out unintelligible pleas while sobbing uncontrollably. Everything he had been through over the past few years, had culminating into a one-minute admission of his complicity with Sinister. His confession, the exile and condemnation from his friends, and then to wake up in his current location and condition -- it had been too much for him. It was if all his courage had left him at the same moment and collided with a simultaneous outpouring of years of mental turmoil. And then something inside of him just snapped. Maybe he had lost his mind because for a time, he had actually thought he was dead and in hell, and Satan was just masquerading as a pale faced mad scientist who used something called a tesseract to get to and from his infernal home. 

But Sinister -- Sinister of all people had somehow managed to calm him down. For once that ever-rational deadpan delivery of Sinister's -- that aura of competence was just what he needed. Sinister promised that it was well within his capability to return his limbs to him, and would do so immediately with no strings attached. And strangely enough, Remy found himself trusting him. 

Sinister told him that it was his common practice to monitor the bio-signatures of certain individuals. Remy was one of them. One of his devices had alerted him to the fact that Remy's bio-signature had dropped dangerously low. He related how he had pinpointed his location, and then proceeded to use his tesseract to transport him back to his present location. 

All this had flashed through Remy's mind in the brief period of time it took for Sinister perform his examination. 

Sensing that his subtle telepathic measures were having their desired effect, Sinister continued a detailed description of what had happened. With a technique he had perfected long ago, he psionically laced halcyon words, which would foster the mental repair to Remy's psyche. He communicated both on a subliminal and verbal level as he clinically described how due to the extreme cold, the blood in his body had retreated from his extremities in an attempt to keep his internal organs functioning. He was suffering from a severe case of frostbite and Sinister had been forced to amputate all of his arms and legs. 

"You done," Gambit said in a clipped tone. 

"For now, yes," Sinister answered, glancing at some hand-held instrument." Sinister was secretly pleased that Remy's self-assurance was already returning, but his expression betrayed nothing. Not that it mattered. Remy would hardly believe such considerations even went through his mind. "You are making excellent progress. The growth of your limbs is progressing at an acceptable rate." 

"Acceptable to you maybe," Gambit said with a little more distaste than he actually felt. Gambit tested his ability to move and found he could move both his arms and legs slowly. His arms had developed to about his elbows, while his legs had just about progressed to his knees. Only a day ago, his arms and legs had been nothing but mere nubs. 

"You have an exceedingly complex nervous system. It is much more dense than the average human or even the average mutant -- if there is such a thing," Sinister added, pleased by what passed as a joke for him Gambit thought. It's why you can do all those wonderful things your lady friends find so impressive," Sinister continued in a droll tone. 

"The density of my nerves an' my arms an' my legs ain't de body part dat de ladies find so impressive," Gambit's own tone serious. 

"Ah yes of course," Sinister nodded his head, a single eyebrow arched wryly. "The return of your limbs was somewhat slow at first but will proceed more rapidly from this point on," Sinister said, already returning to the more familiar sober and clinical tenor. 

"Let's stop dis dance," Gambit said abruptly. "You saved my life. Now you doin' your Dr. Frankenstein act. What you want?" 

"Here I expect a morsel of gratitude and I'm greeted with such a contemptuous tone. And I feel any comparison between myself and one of Mary Shelly's fictional characters is hardly fair. I don't avail myself to any body parts from the deceased -- well not anymore," Sinister said with a predatory smile. 

"Stop playing your games, Sinister. I ask you dis before, a long time ago...why me?" Remy continued and didn't pause for Sinister to feign ignorance about what he was asking. "It got nothin' to do wit' with my talents of gettin' in an' outta places. Ain't nothin' I come across better den your tesseract doohickey. Dat be any thief's dream. You got tricks, ways o'knowin' things -- ways o'doin' things, make a voodoo witch doctor run for his momma. Why you pick me to go into dos tunnels dat day?" he asked with undisguised effort. "An' now you save my life Essex? What is it 'bout me dat I deserve...your notice?" 

As he asked his question, his mind drifted back to the past once more. When Sinister had approached him about putting together a team, he had initially thought the request was -- well stupid. After all, it was obvious to him at least, that Sinister had resources and was perfectly capable of getting anyone he needed, and for whatever the reasons. It was also readily apparent to Remy that Sinister was no choir boy and traveled in circles where _bad men_, even skilled ones, were pretty easy to come by. But the man said that he could pay Remy whatever he needed -- and Jean Luc himself vouched for Sinister's ability to provide Remy the _special_ thing that he required. Alarm bells had gone off in his head that very day, and his instincts had told him that Sinister wasn't like other men he had dealt with before -- and Remy had done business with some of the worst. But the _price_ was right and the job was pathetically easy by Remy's standards. He had said yes, and damned his soul for -- for what seemed like an eternity. 

Sinister was regarding Remy strangely and was taking his time before answering. Remy wasn't sure that he was just stalling in order to fabricate an answer. 

"S'matter Essex, cat got your tongue? Why your interest in dis simple thief?" Remy asked acrimoniously. 

"That, Mr. Lebeau, is a very long and complicated answer -- an answer that you will find hard to believe, and one you most certainly won't like." 

Remy glanced down at his legs. "I ain't goin' nowhere any time soon. An' far as me believin' what you say or likin' it, why don't you give it a try..._Mister Sinister,_" Remy added emphatically. 

"I suppose you _deserve_ some answers," Sinister said, running his fingers through his hair in so human a gesture, that Remy almost mistook the motion for one of...apprehension. 

"Suppose I were to tell you that you and I have a bit in common," Sinister began. 

"You gonna start out wit an insult. What the hell could you an' I possibly have in common?" Remy asked angrily. 

Sinister smiled. An uncharacteristic smile for Sinister -- one that Remy had never seen before...in that Remy could swear that underlying the smile was the faintest hint of pain. 

"We've both experienced loss. You've lost someone dear to you -- Belladonna. While I," Sinister paused, seemingly unsure of his next words. "I am sure some of your teammates have spoken of my...history," Sinister continued a bit more quickly than he intended. "There are certain similarities in that we have both have been given cause to grieve. For a time, we both handled our loss in a similar fashion," his voice unnaturally neutral, even wooden, for what should have been a sensitive subject. 

Remy burst out laughing. "_You_ -- maybe I'm barkin' up de wrong tree, but are you lookin' for some _compassion_ -- from _me_? I know a little 'bout what happened to your wife an' your son, if dat even what you takin' 'bout. As I heard it, dey deserving of the compassion, not you," Gambit said more cruelly than he intended. "You an' me Essex, we ain't de same." 

Sinister just stared at Remy saying nothing, expressionless. Yet Remy felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, as Sinister's crimson eyes burned murderously blood red. Remy imagined that hellfire looked and felt something like this. Sinister closed the fingers of his hand into a fist in an absent minded gesture, and then glanced down at his hand, conscious that Remy had noticed this outward reaction to Remy's words. 

Sinister slowly unclenched his fist, his hallmark composure returning abruptly like the flicking of a light-switch. _Not the smartest thing to do_, Remy thought. I'm on a bed without any arms and legs in one of his labs, and I'm pushing Sinister's buttons. This wasn't going to do anything for his supposedly wily reputation. 

"You sincerely believe that I am pandering for sympathy?" a faint trace of that cold fury still lingering behind those eyes. "I am simply endeavoring to answer your questions. Why don't you bear with me for the moment? I will refrain from attempting to garner any additional sympathy," Sinister added disdainfully. 

Remy said nothing, allowing Sinister to continue uninterrupted. 

"When Apocalypse approached me," Sinister began, "I was very much like you in that I had reached a rather low point in my life. Granted, there were differences, but there were similarities as well. I was somewhat despondent, a sense of hopelessness had infused my being. I neither cared for my own welfare, nor did I care about the welfare of others. Things like family, friends, emotions themselves -- useless, superfluous. They would get in the way of other things, things that I -- things that _Apocalypse_ deemed would need my full attention," an unmistakable trace of bitterness in that usually otherwise stoic demeanor. 

"Would you concede that there was some resemblance, some likeness between what I just described and your state of mind when we _first_ met?" Sinister asked. 

"I wasn't feeling dat great 'bout tings, so what?" Remy said brusquely. 

"You've spoken to your teammates, Beast and Drake. They've told you why I had to eliminate the Morlocks." 

"Dey tol' me what you said," Gambit said hesitantly. 

"And you don't believe them," Sinister said firmly, but without a trace of anger in his voice. "What was McCoy's opinion of my account?" 

"Hank's smarter den just 'bout anyone I know. But he's a gentle soul, da type you like to fuck wit'. 

"What was his assessment?" Sinister said, a little impatience creeping into his voice. 

"He believe you tellin' da truth. But it don' make any of it right, -- even if I believe you," Remy quickly added. "Nothin' ever will," his voice thick with anguish. "But maybe it mean somethin', I just don't what," his voice so low it could barely be heard. 

"You were going to be my third line of defense against the spread of the virus," Sinister continued, indifferent to Remy's emotional state. "After the failure of my explosive devices, the Marauders were next in line to complete the objective. Should they have failed, you were next." 

"What do you mean?" Gambit asked dumbfounded, his undivided attention on Sinister. 

"I had expected that whoever was behind the Dark Beast might attempt to thwart what I had planned. I knew that this opposition would be powerful -- powerful indeed. I would need a powerful weapon to combat this opposition." 

Gambit was quick on the uptake, processing all that Hank and Bobby had told him earlier as well as what Sinister was relating to him now. "So how would I..? realization dawned on Gambit. "You...you were going to restore me to my full power," he said with forceful conviction. 

"Yes, but you have no conception of what that even means," Sinister responded. 

"Well why don't you tell me then," Gambit said angrily because of the frustrating way that Sinister always seemed to dangle a carrot in front of people and then snatch it away just before you could take a bite. 

"The vial I gave you in exchange for _certain_ services..." 

"Yeah?" Gambit interrupted. "It helps me control my powers, keeps me from going haywire." 

"In a way yes," Sinister nodded his head slowly. "But it is also the _cause_ of your problem." 

"What da hell you mean da cause?" Gambit said through clenched teeth, feeling both angry and apprehensive about what Sinister's answer was going to be. 

"I wanted to provide you with reason to come to me -- seek my help. I required that the motivation and the rationale be potent enough for you to keep returning," Sinister spoke in the manner as if he were going over a list. "And of course it was of paramount importance that you believed that this was all of your own volition -- for the data to be of value," Sinister finished as if he were speaking to a room full of college students. 

Remy had a wide-eyed expression frozen on his face, either not understanding -- or unwilling to believe what Sinister was saying. 

"The vial is both the solution and the source of your fluctuating power levels," Sinister explained. "It is a psionic energy storage, delivery, and reclamation device." 

Gambit mouth hung open in disbelief. He instantly recalled his initial exposure to this wondrous device, the miracle of the immediacy of the solution to his long-standing problem -- and Sinister's instructions on how the vial should be used. He had told Remy to gently place the vial at the base of his neck. He should expect a slight pricking sensation which would be accompanied by a mild warmth. The vial appeared to dissolve in his hand completely disappearing, but in actuality was simply absorbed into the back of the neck. 

"The device itself is merely an offshoot of the techno-organic virus. An organic machine that passes through your epidermis and continues through subsequent layers, until it ultimately bonds to the base of your brain stem. Once there, it can either impart or absorb energy -- a rather complex delivery and recovery system of psionic energy," Sinister added. "At any time I could direct the device to convey the energy into your system, causing the increase of unmanageable energy levels. Conversely, I could reverse the process and simply _soak-up_ the energy back into the device, seemingly granting you a cure." 

"What was da point of dis experiment," Remy said with barely restrained fury. "Was it sometin' bout my mutant powers dat de device only work on me?" 

"The device _was_ designed to only work on you. I have attempted to use similar instruments on other mutants, but have not met with any success to date. And for the sake of clarity, the device itself was only a singular ingredient for the experiment, but was by no means the focus." 

Sinister could tell by Remy's expression that his explanation didn't provide him with the understanding that Remy desired. 

"Well, as I said before, it was important for you to choose to return to me but you could not be forced to do so in any way. I simply _created_ the compulsory circumstances. The illness, or your _problem,_ which you were led to believe that only _I_ could help you with, was the necessary impetus." 

"I still don' get it. If makin' me more powerful wasn't da main ting' you tryin' t'do, den what was it? An' why you want me t' keep comin' back, believin' I need your help?" 

"As I stated earlier, I needed someone similar to myself, but not in any physical way," Sinister quickly clarified. "I understand your confusion and know that when most layman hear the word experiment, they immediately think of test tubes and chemicals -- an abundance of scientific equipment. But it was not that type of experiment." 

"Den what type was it?" Remy said, barely repressing the volatile roil of emotions he was undergoing. 

"I was interested in less tangible things. An age old debate concerning ideals or standards of conduct in order to determine an individual's character. Or more simply -- what makes a man good or evil, choose one path or another? What drives one man to brave and overcome considerable obstacles to achieve an objective, while another will choose an easier path, but be forced to harm others in the process? The entire spectrum of human deportment, from narcissism and selfishness, to generosity and self-sacrifice. This along with all of the social dynamics, which influences decision making -- resulting in good or bad choices. My foray into an area of behavioral science, or let's say -- an aspect of it" 

"Repeating myself once more -- both of us were in similarly miserable states of mind. To say I am less than pleased by my actions during my tenure with Apocalypse and after, would be the understatement of the century. Was overwhelming grief a suitable excuse? That question plagued me -- consumed me for a great deal of time. It perturbed me to such a degree, that I decided through you, I would obtain an answer." 

Remy could see some of the intensity of emotions leak through Sinister's crimson eyes and despite his own anger, it frightened him. 

"I required someone worse than myself -- and please take no offense. I simply mean that between the two of us, I certainly had a much more traditional or ideal upbringing. I had two loving parents -- a stern but eminently fair father. My family was affluent, privileged, which offered me multiple opportunities. While you, -- you grew up abandoned, an orphan, raised in the streets. As a mutant, I naturally had an interest in you, but it was your background that truly intrigued me. When I thought you had reached a low point, I saw you as the perfect candidate. 

"If you recall, you didn't want to participate in the actual operation. You said that there was nothing else I could give you. I believe you told me that I could no longer afford you." 

Gambit remembered what Sinister had said like it was a mere moment ago. "Every man has a price to charge, Lebeau. I think I know yours," Remy said robotically, repeating word for word what Sinister had told him many years ago.(2) 

Sinister nodded his head in agreement. "So simple a thing really -- when dealing with people like you...like the X-Men. I simply appealed to your sense of morality, your humanity, which I find both a strength and a weakness." Sinister said without a trace of smugness. "I told you that there were innocents involved. I told you that although I had given strict instructions to the Marauders to resort to force only if absolutely necessary -- I had my misgivings about certain members' inclination towards violence -- that their aggressive natures might get the better of them. I needed you to keep things straight. I even gave you a device to contact me directly if things got out of hand." 

"Oh come now Remy," Sinister shook his head from side to side. "You knew something didn't sound quite right. I described the _type_ of people I needed for this operation, then I claim that I am concerned about collateral damage?" Sinister said with a doubtful expression on his face. "I professed that I didn't want things to get sloppy and needed you as insurance. Yes, I sweetened the pot with more money, but that isn't the reason you agreed to go -- is it? Being the way you are, you felt it was your duty to go along." 

Remy's voice was flat, emotionless. He wouldn't look at Sinister, but instead just stared at the ceiling. "You told me dat you'd be busy wit' somethin' else, somethin' important, but dat you'd come by right away if tings got ugly. When tings started goin' down da wrong road, I keyed dat device you gave me till both my hands cramped," Remy's voice shook. "But you never came. You never had any plans on showin' up. You was just watchin' da whole time." 

"Yes I was," Sinister simply responded. There was nothing apologetic in his tone. "I tend to choose a rather different path when attempting to perform some self-examination." Sinister shook his head in disbelief. "No matter what I threw at you, your moral compass would not allow you to do the wrong thing. I suppose I refused to believe the experiment results, after all, that would mean that I could only conclude that you were the _better man_. So I suppose I punished you. I had believed I was beyond that sort of petty behavior." 

"Even when you awoke to find McCoy and Drake by your side -- you were first concerned for their safety and pleaded with them to leave and not trust what I had to say. Even after _believing_ that they left you in Antarctica to die, you still felt it necessary to protect them," Sinister said incredulously. 

"What do you mean believin'?" Remy was able to pick out that subtlety even after everything he had just heard. 

"You are not aware of this, perhaps subconsciously," Sinister said as an afterthought, "but you are a low level telepath -- of an interesting variety. At times of extreme stress, you act almost as a broadcast antenna, having an effect on those in your immediate vicinity." 

"What do you mean?" Remy asked, once again dumbfounded by this potential revelation. 

"You can influence behavior," Sinister responded. "Oh, you have no control over this," Sinister waved his hand dismissively, "and only under the most extreme duress would it even manifest itself to levels that _might_ be felt. Nonetheless, it did occur." 

"I suppose what happened with Morlocks...and everything associated with it thereafter, was enough for this _brand_ of telepathy to have a noticeable effect. The revulsion for your actions, the years of self-loathing -- you managed to impart those feelings on those around you. Couple that with Rogue's absorption of your powers, she was simultaneously doing the same thing, which exacerbated the ill feelings towards you." 

Remy was speechless, afraid to believe. 

"Remove the telepathic element I just described to you, and your friends would feel no different than they did before they learned of your affiliation with me. Indeed, immediately upon their return from the Citadel, your Professor explained what he had suspected for some time to account for the X-Men's bizarre behavior. Horrified, they quickly returned to find you. McCoy and Drake were going to explain this to you when you awoke with them by your side, but you quickly grew fatigued, needing to rest and they were unable to discuss this rather salient point. Rest assured, they are anxious to unburden themselves of their guilt, and will tell you this themselves tomorrow morning." 

Remy craned his head off the table, the veins in his neck swelling dangerously. It was almost too difficult to speak. He felt as if all the things Sinister had said and done to him were crushing him, an unbearable weight, which had almost succeeded in squeezing the life out of him. "You...you fuck with my powers to make me believe I had a problem so I'd come t'you for help -- because you had some fucked up notion dat we da same somehow, t'see if I act like you?" Remy said, stammering with rage. "All dis time an' shit -- da hell I went tru' for nuthin'...nuthin' but some fuckin' experiment -- for a madman? You'd have to be a man," Remy's body and voice shook, "a human bein' not some fuckin' heartless monster t'have somethin' t'compare wit'," his eyes raking hatred across Sinister one last time. 

Gambit dropped his head back into the bed, hard, not feeling a thing as he looked away from Sinister. He had finally come to realization that you couldn't escape Sinister because he was like a black hole. Once you were caught up in that gravity well, you could never hope to get away. You could only spiral further down into the darkness. 

"Obsession is a powerful and fascinating emotion Remy," Sinister said suddenly, with something almost akin to a rueful expression on his face. "Great accomplishments are possible because of it -- but it can also result in a blind recklessness that can ultimately lead to the ruination of oneself...and others as well." 

Something in Sinister's voice made Remy look back at him once again. For a moment, he almost thought he could see the true face of Nathaniel Essex -- a glimpse of what Sinister, behind the facade or without the posturing, was all about. He stopped himself, and almost laughed out loud at his own foolishness. 

Let Sinister spill his bullshit for whatever his reasons. He was certain some of it was true -- all the bad shit for sure. But he knew there wasn't a true face of Sinister or even Nathaniel Essex for that matter. There was just the face of Mr. Sinister for whatever suited his purpose at a particular time. And the only face he wanted to see was Mr. Sinister's dead face, and the expression on it when Sinister realized it had come about by Remy's own hand. He would kill Sinister -- he swore that to himself then and there. 

"I have studied it tirelessly, in myself -- but was unable to grasp some of the most rudimentary notions behind it." 

Remy heard Sinister's voice through his haze of anger. He forced himself to concentrate on what he was saying. Remy resolved himself to keep his emotions in check because some gut instinct told him that what Sinister was relating, was terribly important to not only him, but countless others as well. 

"I soon determined that to understand my own obsessions, I needed to understand them in others first. I discovered that in the object of one's excessive desire, it is possible to uncover the core of that person, -- the quintessence of a man's soul," Sinister's speculative tone changing to one of unnerving confidence. 

"To that end, I gave you your obsession, and in all ways, all the important ways, through deeds and actions you proved what type of man you are. I on the other hand..." Sinister simply shrugged. 

Remy just glowered at Sinister, saying nothing, his lips curling with disgust. 

"There is more," Sinister said quietly, his whisper cutting through the air like a gunshot. 

Remy's eyes blurred, feeling such a deep and burning hatred, that he felt like he would ignite and explode like the cards he commonly used. 

"I have been accused by one of your esteemed colleagues of using mutants like pawns. I suppose that is true to a certain extent -- especially when speaking about you," Sinister began, his tone almost melancholy. "By my estimation, a short time from now, you will come to me asking for my help in some X-Men related endeavor.(3) I undoubtedly will agree to help you, but will feign ignorance about certain things." 

Remy looked at Sinister like he was completely insane. 

"I admit, this might be a bit bewildering, but try and stay with me. Where was I? Oh yes...I pretend to know nothing of your impending sojourn and nothing about the partner that will be accompany you. On both family and Guild related business, you will travel to the past -- my past and once again, or for the first time I suppose," Sinister corrected himself, sounding thoughtful, "seek my help. You will ask my past-self to perform a surgical procedure for a problem you will encounter. He of course, will notice that you had already undergone surgery and recognize his own hand -- my hand in the performance of this surgery.(4) It is through that recognition, that method with which I will send a message to myself." 

"Why would you want to send a message to yourself?" Remy asked, fascinated despite his great anger. 

"I thought it would be rather obvious," Sinister simply shrugged. "A large part of our conversation has been about this very subject. Wouldn't you like to change certain aspects of your past? Suppose I had the ability to send Drake back to a certain point in your past...let's say just before meeting up with me. Wouldn't you arm Drake with the knowledge of the Morlocks and what the Marauders were going to do?" 

"Have him warn me 'bout you more likely," Remy responded with a withering glare. "OK, I can see de advantages in such a ting. But what dat gotta do wit me, and my surgery?" 

"Think about it. To ensure that a message got back and was unnoticed by anyone -- anyone except the person that the message was intended for...." 

Remy absentmindedly reached back with a limb to short to touch faint scars at the base of his neck. 

"Yes Remy, the scars. Do you think that a surgeon of my skill, with my technology would have to resort to conventional surgery with a simple scalpel...leaving scars? You've seen the way the vial...my techno-organic based technology works. There would be no scars -- unless I wanted there to be...unless I wanted _someone_ to notice." 

"OK den, since you inna talkative mood -- what was in da message?" Remy asked bluntly. 

Sinister graced Remy with a condescending smile. "Many things Remy, many things." 

"Dat ain't an answer," Remy snapped back. 

Sinister paused for a moment considering Remy's question. "A way to kill Apocalypse." 

"Hmm. De way I see it, dat message must'a got garbled 'cause 'Pocalypse been around for a time," Remy said with a cruel edge in his voice. 

"Why yes he has. How very perceptive of you Remy," Sinister responded sardonically. "Yes, I was unsuccessful. Despite, if I may say so myself, my rather clever, _almost_ inescapable attempts on his life, Apocalypse will celebrate another salubrious year of life." 

"Why you all o'sudden tellin' me dis?" Remy said abruptly. 

"Would you believe peace of mind?" 

Remy's expression answered that in short order. 

"I suppose not," Sinister sighed. "No matter. You will have no recollection of the last part of our conversation in that it might influence your actions. _Eventually,_ I will restore this information to you and despite your skepticism, I assure you it will give you a measure of peace." 

"What da hell you mean?" Remy asked furiously. "You ain't fuckin' wit my mind again." 

"What I am about to say will be of little consolation, especially coming from me, but you should take solace in it," Sinister said solemnly. "You have nothing to be ashamed of Remy," Sinister said, ignoring Remy's outrage. "Your actions before, during, and after the Mutant Massacre were truly heroic." Sinister looked at Remy earnestly and said -- "Your Professor chose wisely." 

"I don't give a'shit what...." 

"Sleep," Sinister commanded. Remy's eyes closed instantly and he was quickly asleep. 

"Of course there was more than one message Remy," Sinister said aloud. Perhaps most importantly, a way to kill Apocalypse, he thought to himself. But Remy didn't need to know that the psionic energy storage device that Sinister had implanted, was a time-bomb of sorts meant to kill Apocalypse in the past. Should it have worked, it was unfortunate that it would have killed Remy as well. 

Remy also didn't need to know that Sinister was intensely interested in an artifact called the Momentary Princess.(5) If Sinister's theories proved correct, that precious gem could provide him with the solution to his ultimate problem. One gem of _six_, Sinister mused, all of inestimable value. 

Sinister returned to his private lab to monitor the progress of some ongoing experiments but was distracted, his thoughts returning to his conversation with Remy. His earlier claims to Remy about the reason behind the implantation of the device were also true...at least in part. 

_The better man_, Sinister thought and sighed to himself. There was no need to conduct an experiment for what a child of two could easily discern. The true test subject of the experiment had been himself, Remy had just been an unfortunate casualty...one along with many others. How far he wondered, would he go to prove the type of man he was...or had become? 

* * *

**References**:  
[1]Gambit #7  
[2]UXM #350  
[3]Gambit #10  
[4]Gambit #14  
[5]Gambit #10  



	11. Chapter 10

Note; _This chapter contains some mature themes._

* * *

A TEST OF POWER

**BY DR**

Chapter 10

Extreme justice is often unjust.  
  


Jean Racine  
1664

_The present_

* * *

Without any intention of stopping, the New York Police Department squad car carrying two uniformed officers rocketed down the street. A hodgepodge of trash and dirt was blown into the air creating a debris filled whirlwind and was the only visible sign to mark the police car's passage. 

Despite the fact that the area was known for both the sale and use of illegal drugs as well as a haven for pimps and prostitutes, the criminal activity clearly evident on this very street was ignored. Police officers, particularly of the uniformed variety, were rarely seen here even when requested -- or needed. A greater or more serious crime was taking place in a more _deserving_ neighborhood that demanded the attention of the law enforcement officers. The natives more often than not were left to fend for themselves. 

Ominous peals of thunder rolled across the threatening skies, partially drowning out the fading wail of the siren that rebounded off the crumbling structures lining both sides of the street. The temporary tempest suffused with the mournful klaxon and sang the dirge of the city. 

_Urban squalor._ Such a convenient term used to describe what Apocalypse thought, was such a lucid indicator of societies inevitable collapse. He looked about him; an unmistakable expression of disgust crossed his features. The surrounding buildings, some built as recently as thirty years ago, looked more decrepit and aged than the ancient structures of his native Egypt. He felt nothing but contempt for this area -- this Borough of New York City called the Bronx. It seemed to Apocalypse as if this locale was a focal point that drew the most feeble individuals of society -- a repository for weaklings. 

While he was a proponent of survival of the fittest, these people were hardly surviving -- not in any way that Apocalypse understood things. To him, they were more like a cancer, a malignant tumor that needed to be cutout to stop its spread to the rest of the body. These areas only survived -- the people only survived because of societies misplaced charity, its pervasive disillusionment that people like this could be helped. 

As he walked to his intended destination, he was propositioned by both men and women. He would simply ignore them. His size as well as his demeanor quickly disqualified him as a potential mark or victim, or even a prospective client. One look at his face and even the most determined _peddlers_ were quickly dissuaded from pressing any further. He appeared to be a perfectly normal human being, but it was easy to see that his eyes were the eyes of a predator -- not prey, and that it would be best for their sake that he be left alone. 

Apocalypse knew that the people who approached him on the street sold their bodies to support their vices. They suffered from a mental fragility that could only be borne through the haze of alcohol or drugs. He had seen it in many cities throughout the world -- in different times, over many centuries. The past and the present were very much alike when dealing with mankind's vulnerable underbelly -- the easily broken. He had often wished he could deal with this problem as he saw fit, if he were not -- _restrained_ from doing so. Civilization would be much different from what it was today. 

So it was here, amongst humanities refuse, this abandoned apartment building -- it was here that he would find his quarry. 

He left the street, the impending storm clouds and the sun already much too low to cast anything but eerie shadows through the broken windows and partially open doorway. Apocalypse stepped inside and his eyes immediately adjusted to the murky interior. Garbage covered most of the floor space leaving very little room to walk. What were once solid and intact walls, now consisted of crumbling sheetrock and splintered wood, exposing a tangle of electrical wiring and plumbing. The stink of vomit, urine, and feces, permeated this area even though it was so close to the entrance and outside air. Although the odor was unpleasant, it did not disturb Apocalypse in the slightest. He was quite familiar with the scent of decay in all its forms. Raccoon-size rats brazenly walked across the debris ignoring his presence, engrossed with their relentless and single-minded search for food. 

He turned down a hallway, startling three men that were involved in some sort of transaction. Two of them immediately fled, while one chose to stay, angrily advancing on Apocalypse. Apocalypse supposed that his anger stemmed from the fact that he had intruded on the man's livelihood, and calmly watched as he pulled a large grease-coated kitchen knife from inside of a torn and soiled shirt. An incoherent string of what might have been obscenities issued from an almost completely toothless mouth. Apocalypse reached out and almost faster than the eye could follow snapped his neck and tossed him aside like a rag doll. The man's life was snuffed out so quickly that his enraged expression was still frozen on his face when he landed among a large gathering of rodents, who quickly went to work on this unexpected source of sustenance. 

He walked to a set of stairs that led to the building basement. He moved down the cement steps silently, his pace unhurried. The lighting was sporadic; overhead bulbs were either burned out or broken and left large areas completely unlit. Apocalypse had no difficulty negotiating through the nebulous underground room. He could see in almost complete darkness or could illuminate the area himself if he so desired. 

From his current location, he could hear faint murmuring and the subdued moans of a sizable group of people. The noise resembled the sounds that patients from a military field hospital might make, but were different because these were not the painful cries of the wounded. It almost sounded as if they were in some way diminished or depleted -- giving the impression that they were close to death and had given up. Apocalypse knew that he was nearing his goal. 

He came upon a series of large tanks -- possibly hot water heaters or storage containers for fuel, which had at one time provided a source of heat for the building. The foundation walls were covered with a thick coating of dirt or more probably soot from the nearby oil-burning furnace. In between two of the tanks, a mother and her baby were propped up against the ash covered cinderblock walls, a dark and foreboding backdrop to an even darker reality. 

Apocalypse stopped for a moment, regarding the two humans and stood no more than a few feet in front them. The child, no more than two weeks old, was nosily suckling on a flaccid and grime covered breast. It struggled tenaciously, attempting to find nourishment where there was none. Apocalypse was surprised that the mother had been able to give birth to the child at all. An abundance of track marks covered the mottled skin of both of her exposed arms. She made no attempt to hide her long-standing addiction. The fact that the baby was still alive was also unexpected, but that it fought to remain so was not. 

Life was stubborn in all its forms. During his long life, Apocalypse had come across many individuals dogged in their perseverance -- their will to live unbreakable despite any obstacle. Young or old, poor or sick, those who _truly_ understood the great and worthwhile struggle that life was, would never surrender -- would not go easily into the night. This simple child epitomized that unyielding spirit but would have no chance to prove its determination any further. It was grossly underweight, malnourished, and had been forced to endure the most unsanitary living conditions. Additionally, the mother's drug use during her pregnancy had most certainly doomed the child to experience any number of mental and physical deficiencies in its future -- a future that it would never have. Its hold on life was already too tenuous to have any real chance. Apocalypse could see with his mutant ability that its life force had already sunk much too low, beyond even his technologically advanced abilities to do any good. He judged that it would die -- painfully over the next few days. 

He would kill the child first, quickly and mercifully. 

The mother seemed to momentarily come out of her drugged induced stupor and see him for the first time. She leered at him, a practiced and artificial expression meant to beguile. "What do you want honey?" She licked her lips with a swollen and white spotted tongue. Stained and crooked teeth did their best to smile at him seductively. Apocalypse answered her smile with a short but intense and focused burst of radiation. Her skin immediately started to redden and blister as her internal organs began to cook her from the inside out. A scream of pain escaped her lips as long dead nerve endings came suddenly and ferociously to life. Apocalypse's rare demonstration of mercy for the child did not extend to her. 

After proceeding a short distance further, Apocalypse stepped into a large storage chamber. About forty people were scattered about the room wearing little or no clothing whatsoever. The majority appeared to be incoherent, either enthralled by their captor or from drug use -- or quite possibly Apocalypse supposed mentally ill. It was apparent that many hadn't moved for some time and were lying in their own excrement. The air was heavy, almost pasty, although the smell of death easily overshadowed the stench of human waste and filth. With just a glance, Apocalypse quickly counted nine corpses, all in various stages of decay. A frothing sea of maggots writhed over the remains and clouds of flies buzzed about the room. They had died of unnatural causes. Apocalypse could see several different protruding knife handles, a shattered skull, and a crushed rib cage. Groans of pain and despair filled the room -- a fertile feeding ground for the Shadow King. 

It was a simple matter to locate his target. Other than himself, only one other individual was standing. Apocalypse studied his face from the distance. The man's eyes were closed, and the apparent look of bliss on his face was somehow incongruent with the sickly skin tone painted across harsh angular features. Keen eyes snapped open and a voracious curiosity immediately focused on him. 

"You've taken a wrong turn my friend...a very wrong turn indeed," he said with a look of malicious glee. "Or are you here for a reason -- a police officer perhaps?" he scoffed. 

Apocalypse walked towards the man slowly, self-possessed, seemingly oblivious to what was going on around him. "I am indeed here for a reason -- to see you Ahmal Farouk." 

Eyebrows ascended to the top of an almost noseless skull that seemed devoid of any skin covering. "Ah, I see you know me but I am at a bit of a disadvantage." The Shadow King spoke in a sibilant tone of voice, a whisper so low that it was almost obligatory to listen. "Perhaps you'd like to enlighten me about your knowledge of my identity and introduce yourself as well?" he said in a conspiratorial manner that was mocking at the same time. "After all," he gestured at the depravity that surrounded him, "we live in a civilized society. Propriety, formalities, etiquette -- those are the simple and sometimes superficialities that make us men, are they not?" Sunken eyes that were nothing but dark holes stared out of a twisted face that grimaced with something resembling the sound of laughter. 

The Shadow King could easily wrest the answers to his questions from practically any mind by using his mutant powers. He instead chose to first employ conventional means. He often enjoyed toying with his prey, especially the strong-minded ones -- or the ones who _initially_ thought of themselves as strong. It was so much more satisfying when his quarry believed that they were in control and then discovered _who and what_ they were facing. He would often possess the form of the least physically intimidating individual he could find for just that reason. It was just that much more shocking -- that much more terrifying for the victim and always provided him with such a succulent feast. He believed that this one -- the man in front of him would prove to be just that. The man's knowledge though was unexpected and there was something about his boldness -- his composure that disturbed him at some level. His demeanor amongst the horror that surrounded him was most unusual. He smiled cruelly. In the end, it made little difference. Human or mutant, perhaps this witless fool would provide him with some uncommon sport before succumbing to his usual _charms_. 

Apocalypse looked about him distastefully. "At first glance it would appear that you prey upon the weak but that is not entirely true. You instead cultivate the weak, bolstering the least desirable qualities, intensifying fears for your own pleasure. Your powers are an anathema to the natural order, and would eventually conflict with my plans for this planet and its inhabitants -- my vision." Apocalypse's impossibly deep voice grew deeper still. "A pride of lions targets the weak, the sick, the old and in the process strengthens the herd and its future generations. You serve no such purpose, quite the contrary actually. Without the easily corruptible, the cowardly, you could not survive. You would promote and foster all these pathetic qualities and contaminate both mutants and humans on a grand scale. This I cannot allow." 

Shrewd and keen senses beyond the Shadow King's mutant ability were triggered. When one was used to having almost ultimate power, sometimes these senses -- these survival instincts were dulled to the point of dormancy. But this was not the case with Ahmal Farouk who readily recognized that the stranger was not making a show of intimidation. No, there was definite power behind the words -- the Shadow King could feel it. 

"You know much about me stranger and yet you believe you have it within your power to stop me?" The Shadow King's tone had become spiteful but his bearing had changed slightly, and unconsciously assumed a more defensive posture. 

"I have it within my power to kill or enslave you. This time, and only this time I will allow you a choice between the two." 

He almost laughed but stopped himself. The certainty in which the stranger said these words was almost unnerving, but the Shadow King was not easily intimidated. "Not much of a choice but a magnanimous gesture on your part none the less. Perhaps the person who would hold my very life in his hands could provide me with a name?" The Shadow King's tone was sardonic, but a seething anger had underscored his words. 

"You require a name? You know _of_ me, but have wisely chosen to avoid me." 

The Shadow King moved closer to the intruder and had begun to compel those in his thrall into action. He had yet to probe the stranger telepathically and curiously enough, did not know the reason why. 

"The great and powerful self-proclaimed _king of shadows_, how terrifying. Many kings have fallen before me -- one just recently." A sound like a rockslide of huge boulders filled the room as Apocalypse laughed. "I've known and watched you over many years. I've seen your powers grow, your confidence swell. Only a very short time ago, you were just a fledgling mutant telepath, only able to possess the most weak-minded humans. Later, with some discipline, your power and skill matured, which allowed you to control some of your own kind -- feeble-minded mutants." 

The Shadow King's eyes narrowed perceptibly. "You seek to provoke me, why?" His back stiffened. Morbid interest and seething anger combined, forming a volatile mix. 

With a voice devoid of any compassion, Apocalypse's words and tone were incontestable. "The only child of a drunk and abusive father. A father who derived sadistic pleasure in torturing innocent, helpless children -- even his own flesh and blood. How tragic. But it was the only time that your father was happy -- when he was inflicting pain on others, was it not?" 

A sharp and incredulous intake of breath from the Shadow King confirmed the validity of Apocalypse's words. "You are about to receive an excruciating lesson in the art of pain," he rasped, his voice dripping with spite. All those in his control were compelled to grab any weapon and were driven into a murderous rage. It was a testament to the Shadow King's power that despite their physically depleted condition, those controlled by his potent and poisoned mind were still able to move. 

Apocalypse continued, any threat to his person was ignored. "My former associate was fascinated by how your mutant powers were formed. He called it an aberrant form of telepathy because of your rather _special_ childhood. Pain associated with pleasure, despair associated with joy, fear associated with satisfaction. You were able to tap into your father's mind at an early age and wrapped his depravities around yourself like a warm blanket. You were somehow able to find comfort in the nightmarish landscape of your father's mind eventually aiding him in finding victims. Father and son, donor and recipient, a symbiotic relationship of sorts -- a form of psychic vampirism, all stemming from the most simplistic of desires -- a child wanting to make his father happy. A perversion or distortion of a yet uncultivated mutant power. A sickness conveyed from father to son -- no different than the passing of a genetic trait from one generation to the next." 

"Enough!" the Shadow King let loose with a guttural scream. His eyes darted maniacally around the room almost as if he was worried that someone had just overheard what was said. "I'm going to carve the skin off your bones, pluck the eyes from your sockets, and feed your entrails to the rats. I'll pry your mind open, and plant the most hideous nightmares in your head, playing the worst scenarios over and over -- you'll never know what's real. I'll keep you alive, and take you with me like a pet wherever I go. I'll make the pain last forever, you'll beg me to kill you -- but I won't," the Shadow King screamed in strangled and bloodthirsty tones, spewing saliva in all directions. 

Three of the Shadow King's slaves were within striking distance and sluggishly raised crude weapons. 

Apocalypse casually raised single arm -- a blinding spear of light shot from his hand and cut through his attackers. He sustained the discharge of energy just long enough to kill every person in the room save for the Shadow King. 

The Shadow King's vision was momentarily impaired by the dazzling release of searing energy. He lowered his forearm slowly, which he had used in an attempt to shield his eyes. The smell of cooked meat reached his nostrils and he could barely make out the smoldering remains of his _cattle_. 

His vision cleared completely and standing where a man had been a few seconds ago was the mutant overlord -- "Apocalypse," the Shadow King hissed, his eyes suddenly taking on a hunted look. 

"Yes. I am surprised you recognize me. You've never seen fit to cross my path. An immortal mutant with my power -- my resources. What a tempting prize I'd make to someone with your designs -- and your great power. Yet you've never attempted to control me, how odd." A mixture of sarcasm and disdain was clearly discernable in Apocalypse's tone. 

The Shadow King crossed his arms and took a defiant stance. "I have no need of you. You do my bidding with no encouragement from me." The Shadow King inched closer, appearing unconcerned about who he was facing. "But since we have now crossed paths, perhaps I should take your suggestion and subjugate you to my will." 

The Shadow King had taken a steadying breath and cursed himself for his outward display of uncertainty. His own acknowledgement of fear had only infuriated him further. But if there were one being on the planet that he feared, it was Apocalypse. He had no idea why Apocalypse was here, and additional doubt assaulted his mind and his features as Apocalypse's unapproachable eyes locked onto his own. 

"You sincerely believe that a clumsy show of bravado can deceive me -- that I do not recognize you for the mewling coward that you truly are? Your eyes cannot hide the veil of fear that I've seen in those who have heard just a whisper of my name -- and those who have come to know me personally," something in Apocalypse's cold gaze turned immediately dangerous, "as you shall." 

The Shadow King knew the time for talk was over and self-preservation drove him to abruptly attack. He extended a dark tendril of his power and sent it knifing into Apocalypse's mind. Expecting some kind of defense, Farouk's onslaught was brutal, employing an enormous amount of psionic energy in one focused assault. Only the most powerful of telepaths would be able to protect themselves against such an incursion. His attack would not only penetrate most any telepathic shield, but also shatter it so completely that it was doubtful the recipient of such an attack would ever be able to fabricate one again. But he encountered no shield -- there wasn't any protection from his attack at all. Instead he found that he had free reign of Apocalypse's mind. 

Suspecting a trap, the Shadow King immediately attempted to wrest control of the body from its owner. Strangely enough, he found that he could not influence Apocalypse's mind at all -- because he was unable to locate it. He then tried to influence the brain, the autonomic nervous system, in an attempt to physically control the body. He tried to stop Apocalypse from breathing, stop his heart, but again all his efforts failed. 

Feeling decidedly uneasy, he decided to withdraw his presence from Apocalypse's mind but quickly found out he was unable to do so. A wave of panic washed over him so unexpectedly he could barely think about his next course of action -- and felt the bile rise up his throat in his physical body. Having been in complete control of others for so long, his own reaction was completely unfamiliar and turned his fear into a panic driven rage. 

If he could not escape, he would wreak havoc and tear this mind apart. He would take any childhood fear or trauma, the smallest of insecurities and inflate them to crippling proportions. He would magnify any anxiety, feed any dread -- until there was nothing else but paralyzing terror. _Fear_ was the vital key -- his key to controlling any person, human or mutant. He could enter any mind and find that weakness, that ruling focal point of fear like a bloodhound. He would sniff it out and then go to it unerringly. It was like a sweet smelling fragrance to him. But for the very first time, after violating literally thousands of minds -- here in Apocalypse's mind, he could not detect even the slightest scent of fear, nothing at all. 

He paused, concentrating on bringing all his formidable powers to bear. He would just take a more basic, yet more time-consuming approach by examining individual memories. Through those memories, especially the early ones that served as a foundation on which every individual's personality was built, it would be possible to find something to use. He would focus on something particularly disturbing, and use that to turn it into something all consuming. He would nurture even the smallest instability and eventually the foundation would crumble and fall, and with it, Apocalypse. 

Even the most powerful telepaths needed to create familiar frames of reference to navigate through the infinitely complex maze that was the human mind. When the Shadow King entered any mind, a lifetime of memories appeared to him as myriad of open doors. The size of the door tended to indicate the importance of the memory while the amount of light or its absence spoke to the _type_ -- pleasant or unpleasant. Because Apocalypse was so long lived, the landscape of his mind was that much more vast and contained an incredible storehouse memories. 

He selected the nearest doorway, and moved closer but was startled by the size of the entrance. It was more like a huge portal than any doorway and dazzling light streamed from the opening. He looked at some of the neighboring portals and the same glaring light was coming from all of them. He was again struck at how different this mind was and at some fundamental level that he was unable grasp. _Inhuman, unnatural_, his own thoughts strange or inadequate even to himself when trying to describe what he was seeing here. Perhaps it was Apocalypse's immortality that forced -- or maybe _required_ that it develop in a different way. 

He caught glimpses of different times and places...different lives. All he had to do was simply step through one of the doorways and he would become instantly immersed in that memory -- that world. He hesitated, for the first time fearful about entering deeper into another mind. Disregarding his instincts, he forcefully stepped through the entrance, anger once again fueling his actions. 

He immediately recognized the smell of the Egyptian desert, felt the merciless sun scorch his skin. His senses were instantly stunned by the richness of the memory, incredibly vivid and deeply intense -- overwhelmingly real. His forays into other minds, other memories were pale by comparison, bland, lacking any substance. Here he was suddenly having trouble separating what were Apocalypse's memories from his own. 

He felt his own muscles ache, screaming for a moment of inactivity, but that was not allowed. There was nothing but endless toil for his masters. He hesitated for just a moment trying to catch his breath, and immediately felt the sharp bite of a whip tear at his back. The potency of the pain brought him back to himself, compelling him to withdraw immediately. He threw himself back out the way he came. 

He was deeply shaken by the experience, and his lack of control. He was one of the most powerful and experienced telepaths in existence and should have been able to manipulate and influence anything he encountered. What happened -- shouldn't have been possible. Yet a simple memory had almost completely overwhelmed him. He had been ready to capitulate to his captors just to avoid the pain. He came to the terrifying realization that he had come so close to losing his identity in that memory, and could have been trapped there forever. 

He knew that he was traversing through new territory and must proceed with extreme caution. Perhaps this was an elaborate trap by Apocalypse. He decided to peer through a few more of the portals -- before entering into any of them. 

The Shadow King stopped at the threshold of another portal, recognizing Apocalypse immediately even though he looked entirely human. He was bound and gagged and had obviously been beaten for some time. Two horses, one attached to each of his legs, were keeping them firmly spread apart as a sharpened stake was gradually forced into his body. The end of the stake was well oiled and care was taken that the stake not be too sharp, else the victim might die too rapidly from shock. 

The Shadow King was very familiar with the art of impaling. Normally the stake was inserted into the body through the buttocks and was often forced through the body until it emerged from the mouth. However, there were many instances where victims were impaled through other body orifices or through the abdomen or chest. 

Apocalypse's body convulsed once and then again as he coughed up a thick glob of blood. He turned his head to his tormentors, and spit at them. They had done their job well. He was still alive and could be punished further. The Shadow King decided to move on. 

He looked into another doorway, again recognizing Apocalypse in another strange guise. He was being questioned...tortured by some member or agency of the Church. He could feel Apocalypse's disgust toward the inquisitor. He refused to answer any of his questions and would not utter a sound despite the inquisitor's _skilled_ and persuasive attempts. Driven out of his mind by anger, the inquisitor ordered that, dressed in a short tunic, the prisoner be put first in a bath of hot water, then of cold. He was pelted with small stones bruising his skin making it even more sensitive to pain. Then, with a large rock tied to his feet, he was raised up again, kept there for an hour, and dropped again, and his shins were poked with reeds as sharp as swords. Again and again he was hauled up until, on the twentieth elevation, the rope broke and he fell from a great height with the stone still tied to his feet. His body with most of the bones shattered on impact with the ground. The Shadow king watched as the inquisitor's sniveling servant took the body and disposed of it in a cesspool. 

Looking through several more doorways it was more of the same. The list of tortures endured by Apocalypse read like the Devil's handbook for hell: building nails driven into the head, cutting off of limbs, blinding, strangulation, burning, cutting off of noses and ears, mutilation of sexual organs, scalping, skinning, exposure to the elements or to wild animals, and burning alive. Apocalypse for some inexplicable reason, subjected himself to the most unbelievable tortures, brutal conditions, sustaining incredible physical and mental torment. 

Apocalypse stepped out from one of the portals, gigantic, a personification of power. "Strength of will is a byproduct of tribulations, and for that strength of will to be insurmountable, it must be pursued with a relentless and endless fervor. It can never be granted, it must always be earned." Apocalypse spoke with a voice as deep as the deepest ocean trench. 

The Shadow King suddenly felt puny and that he would be crushed like a small insect, insignificant and unnoticed. 

"My beliefs are often times misconstrued or misunderstood. But being understood holds little significance to me. There are differences between humans and mutants, but they are almost meaningless. Mutants for all intents and purposes simply possess an additional tool. Depending on the user, that tool can either be an advantage or sometimes a damaging crutch. It is strength of mind, resolve, fortitude, -- individual willpower that will determine which. It is that strength of will, and only that, which will make all things possible." 

The Shadow King understood -- comprehending, at least in theory at what Apocalypse had done. Apocalypse had subjected himself to a never-ending series of tests, sustained incredibly over thousands of years. These merciless trials were chosen to test the upward limits and beyond of pain and endurance -- both Apocalypse's physical and mental stamina. From what the Shadow King had seen, Apocalypse had no limit. The result was a being of such self-control and abstemiousness; it was too difficult to conceive. A mind formed over millennia from a crucible of his own making, impossible to sway, indomitable. 

All empires eventually fell, growing soft, decadent. The leaders subject to the same foibles...an immortal even more prone to these pitfalls. Apocalypse it seemed had found a way -- a tortuous way to avoid this. The Shadow King realized that Apocalypse's self-image was not borne out of arrogance or conceit, but out of reality. Tested over and over again, never growing complacent, unswerving in his brutally stringent self-imposed doctrine -- Apocalypse truly in every way was what he proclaimed to be. He was the most powerful of their kind. Compared to this -- this majesty, he was nothing but a speck, an inconsequential bug. His powers were a match flame compared to the heart of a star. 

If there was ever any fear in this mind it was consumed, exorcised long ago in a forge of burning pain. What use would Apocalypse ever have for a telepathic shield? Access to his mind meant nothing. He could see that to influence Apocalypse telepathically in any way would be like pushing against the ground and expecting to be able to move the Earth from its orbit. 

The Shadow King had already begun to think incredibly, in a subservient manner. He had to remove himself from Apocalypse's mind at all costs. Additionally, whatever Apocalypse had planned obviously spanned centuries, possibly millennia. That plan required him to hold steadfastly to a certain course and Apocalypse had taken great pains, literally, to ensure that he would not or could not deviate because of personal weakness. And that plan involved _him._

He focused on amassing every erg of psionic energy to break free from Apocalypse. He felt it build and then just as quickly dissipate. He saw -- or was allowed to see Apocalypse take control of the psionic energy and weave it into a -- leash -- a leash that was already there and had just been reinforced. The Shadow King realized that he had been held here all along -- held in place by his own psionic energy. Apocalypse had somehow harnessed the energy and used it against him. 

Hysterical, he began to struggle like a trapped animal. He clawed at the tether in an attempt to extricate himself. Even though in a mad frenzy, he saw Apocalypse grin menacingly and then watched as he let go of his chain. He thought he heard the echo of deafening laughter in his ears as he returned to his physical body and the physical world. 

He felt heavy hands on his shoulders, and moaned as fingers sunk deeply and painfully into his muscles -- crushing. The Shadow King's heart stopped and lodged in his throat as he starred into Apocalypse's eyes that were just a few scant inches from his own. Too late -- between the moments that they were on the psychic plane, Apocalypse had crossed the distance that separated them and now had him in an inescapable grasp. 

A bright flash of light, a brief moment of disorientation -- the Shadow King was momentarily dazed but knew he was in a different location. He opened his eyes and found himself in a vast room surrounded by a variety of unrecognizable technology. 

"You are far from civilization -- if you considered where you were to be civilization. You are deep in the Himalayas, in one of my holding facilities," Apocalypse's cold voice informed him. 

The Shadow King looked directly about him and noticed that he was being held firmly in place, but no chains bound him. Strange spheres of energy were somehow acting in concert and kept him from moving. He could only move marginally and suddenly felt extremely weak, almost faint. 

"You've probably begun to notice that my machine is draining you of your power though you should feel no shame. This very same machine once held a god."(1) 

"Please," the Shadow King implored. "Do not kill me. I will do anything you ask." 

Apocalypse made a sound that was probably the equivalent of a sigh for anybody else. "It is always the same. Time and time again those who have foolishly chosen to go against me first bluster, then realize that I cannot be beaten. Begging and pleading soon follow. My challenges are few and far between." Apocalypse shook his head. "I will not kill you...yet. This particular machine has many functions. It can also be used for conditioning." 

"There is no need for -- _conditioning,_" the Shadow King's voice shook, sounding small and terrified. "Anything you wish is yours, anything!" He was deathly afraid of what was to come. 

Apocalypse ignored the Shadow King's pleas. "Some, yourself included will see this as simple torture -- but it is not. For too long you've been in control of others. Consider this a test, which will be used to convince you...a powerful reminder of who truly is in control. The thought of independence will never again enter your mind. My brilliance, my radiance will shed light into every corner of your corrupted soul." Apocalypse smiled broadly. "Together we will see what that light shows." 

"Please, just tell me your plans and I will show you -- prove to you how I can help you." the Shadow King's voice was now high pitched, almost like a squealing child. 

"My plans involve an interplay of circumstances beyond your paltry comprehension. I cannot be placated and to plead or struggle further is useless. Freedom -- your freedom is a wistful illusion and a goal that you will never attain. Acceptance of your situation is the only measure of freedom that you will ever have again." 

Apocalypse walked over and stood behind a small pedestal. "You may in time come to realize that you owe me a great debt of gratitude. You have immersed yourself for much too long in your weakness, the murky depths of depravity. You've lost all perspective to see how debilitated you've become. I have brought you out of the _shadows_," Apocalypse laughed at his small play on words. "Out of the darkness, and into the light -- my light." 

Apocalypse passed his hand over an instrument panel. A snarl of agony erupted from the Shadow King's mouth. Two hours from now, he would stop screaming but only after both his vocal cords had ruptured. The Shadow King's inability to make a sound was irrelevant -- the pain was inescapable. The machine would not let him sleep or rest but would keep him alive indefinitely, even without food or water. If he grew tired, it would simply compensate by returning some of the energy it had appropriated -- always just enough to keep him fully conscious and completely aware of what was being done to him. 

He watched indifferently as Ahmal Farouk twisted and contorted while still being held firmly in place. The duration and volume level of his squall surprised Apocalypse. That was probably the most remarkable impression that this reputedly fearsome mutant had made on him. Although, as blood began to run from the Shadow King's nose and seep from his eye sockets, a mild curiosity had also arisen in Apocalypse's mind. 

"Can you feed off your _own_ pain and misery and sustain yourself, just as you've sustained yourself by siphoning off power from others?" Apocalypse asked aloud. "I suppose it would be no different than trying to consume one's own flesh and obtain nourishment." 

Apocalypse pondered that question and wondered if he'd have the answer when he returned in ten days. 

* * *

**References**:  
[1]X-Factor #50 BU  



	12. Chapter 11

Note; _This chapter contains some mature language._

* * *

A TEST OF POWER

**BY DR**

Chapter 11

The urge to save humanity is almost always  
a false-face for the urge to rule it.   
H.L. Mencken  
1956

_The present_

* * *

It isn't everyday that you return home to find an e-mail from Mr. Sinister waiting for you on your PC. 

What a fucking way to end the day. 

The unpleasant surprise consisted of an invitation to meet as well as a comprehensive and completely fascinating account of recent events involving both Sinister and other members of the X-Men -- including Cable. She assumed that these little known details were supposed to vouch for the identity of the sender. There was a hook of course -- this was Mr. Sinister after all. That probably more than anything else confirmed whom it was from. At the end of the correspondence was a promise to disclose information -- hidden or forgotten facts about a _certain someone's_ history. That's what brought her to this place. 

_It figures an arrogant bastard like Sinister would pick this spot to meet,_ Domino thought to herself. She couldn't understand the allure of places like this and would never waste any of her free time, _or money,_ by spending it at such an ostentatious hotel. And the people...she'd rather have ten hangnails than socialize with any of the clientele. _It was a public enough place though, plenty of people -- or innocent bystanders,_ she thought cynically. 

She had considered both the pros and cons carefully before deciding to meet with Sinister, but in typical fashion consulted no one about her decision. There was a fair amount of uncertainty and danger even when considering the inexplicable truce between Sinister and other members of the X-Men of late. She had certainly put herself in a respectable amount of stupid and precarious positions over the years, but accepting an invitation from Mr. Sinister -- well that was an altogether different sort of thing. But her curiosity had won out, so she thought she might as well make the best of it. 

She did one last inconspicuous check of the single and small firearm she carried -- not that it would be of any use against Sinister. Although you never knew what other more _vulnerable_ villains might show up on any given day. She maneuvered past a few slow moving pedestrians and decided to use the posh Park Avenue hotel entrance to the Waldorf-Astoria. 

She walked up the double wide marble staircase, an elegant Hermes gown accenting her finely sculpted figure. This was the first time she wore the dress, which was a gift given to her many years ago by an _overly_ grateful client. She was surprised that she had accepted it, and was even more surprised that she had kept it all these years. And despite opinions to the contrary, she did have good fashion sense and knew that her _normal_ wardrobe would draw some unwanted attention in a place like this. Additionally, she had to admit that the dress looked pretty damn good on her. It fit perfectly and a dress of this caliber was always in style. 

Her heels didn't make a sound as she quickly crossed the plush floral-carpeted lobby, which extended a full city block to Lexington Avenue. She passed variety of large rooms, famous for the notoriety of the patrons. The Hilton Room, Peacock Alley -- both of which commonly held and entertained celebrities, royalty, and even presidents. A gilded sign marked her destination -- the Empire Room. 

In typical New York fashion the hotel was mobbed, but she quickly spotted Sinister seated at a medium sized table at the back of the room. He wore a light gray suit that was both subtle and elegant. 

It was so strange seeing _Mr. Sinister_ dressed like a conventional New York businessman and relaxing in so normal a setting. But there was no mistaking the aura of power and prestige that emanated from Sinister and distinguished him even in this room filled with wealthy and powerful men. She wondered if they knew that there was a lion amongst the wolves. It occurred to her that a number of these so-called powerful men knowingly or unknowingly did Sinister's bidding. Cable had told her more than once that nothing and no one was beyond his reach. 

Sinister stood as she approached the table and pulled a chair out for her. He towered over her; the strength of his personality was immediately augmented by his physical size. "You look lovely this evening," he said in a deep rich voice as a charming smile graced his face. Fresh flowers decorated the table; mossed roses and nosegays -- her favorites. She wasn't impressed. 

Domino disdainfully declined Sinister's offering and borrowed another chair from an adjoining table and sat herself as far from Sinister as the table allowed. 

A look of mild amusement briefly flashed across Sinister's features ignoring the deliberate affront. Sinister made no overt signs to signal any of the staff, but almost immediately a serving tray was wheeled over covered with assorted shellfish, caviar, red meat, and a number of exotic looking dishes that she could not identify. Several bottles of wine were presented by a wine steward, a 1945 Mouton Rothschild Pauillac among them. OK, she was a little bit impressed, but still declined his attempt at hospitality. 

"Can we bypass the pomp and circumstance and get to why you called me here?" she said not trying to hide her impatience. 

"I presume the hustle and bustle of the modern world doesn't allow for food, drink, and the simple exchange of social pleasantries. It is quite possible that I am the only bon vivant in existence. How terribly sad," Sinister said shaking his head. 

Domino's expression was hardly sympathetic and her silence prompted Sinister to get to the point. 

"As you wish," Sinister responded amicably, again not showing any signs of being insulted, feigned or otherwise. "The reason for my invitation will involve a short explanation." 

"I'm listening," Domino said brusquely. 

"Excellent," Sinister answered seeming genuinely pleased and began immediately. "During some of our past -- I'll call them _encounters_, I have intimated that we share a common history so to speak." 

"Nice choice of words. 'Encounters' is the way a shithead like you would put it. Yeah, I haven't missed some of the lines you've dropped my way," Domino said, clearly angry. "I remember when you waltzed in and almost killed all of X-Force and tricked Nate Grey into entering that sewer you call a mind. I can see you now lauding over all of us, and hear your voice with that condescending tone...'Don't you find it the least bit ironic? That you of all people would stand against me, Domino?'(1). Then in Genosha, right after you were nice enough to knock me out, you implied to Cable that you knew a lot more about me than he did. '...what do you really know about our enigmatic Domino anyway? You don't even know her real name...'(2) I guess if you were trying to be a fucking home wrecker, that's a pretty decent way to go about it." 

Sinister just looked at her, an innocent expression on his face. He was silent, knowing that she had more to say. 

She glared at him, her lips curling with disgust. "What do they call that...a flare for the melodramatic? I call it a master of mysterious bullshit. And what about the _first_ time we met? When you dropped that little bombshell that Cable was the real Nathan Christopher Summers and that crazy fuck Stryfe was the clone.(3)I know _I_ didn't know you -- I'd never seen you before. But you seemed to know me. It wasn't what you said as much as the way you looked at me -- the familiarity. I got the impression that you were trying to convey something -- deliberately trying to creep me out." She felt ill just by thinking about it. 

"Ah, yes. Those are some of the...encounters, nicely laced with your colorful metaphors, which I was referring to, " Sinister said sounding almost embarrassed. 

His expression changed and Sinister actually chuckled for a second, obviously amused by what she just had said. "My, aren't we pedantic?" Sinister said as his eyebrows rose to the top of his forehead. "I had no idea that I made such a lasting impression or that you possessed an eidetic memory." 

"Yeah, I'm just full of surprises -- kind of like you," she said acerbically. 

"Indeed. Another of your unexpected talents that will save us both some time." Sinister paused and then simply shrugged. "The reason I made allusions to having a common history is irrelevant. But the fact that we do indeed share a past while no doubt is an unpleasant revelation to you, is extremely relevant." 

Domino's expression was both confused and irritated. "Maybe if you were a bit more specific I'd know what the hell you were talking about." 

Sinister raised a single eyebrow and then continued. "Fair enough. Your work with the NSA and the task of guarding a man named Milo Thurman, a genius who could predict the future by analyzing past historical trends was of particular interest to me personally.(4) 

Domino swallowed reflexively and felt immediately uncomfortable at the mention of Milo's name. She promised herself before this meeting that she would not give Sinister the satisfaction of seeing anything he said get to her -- but shit, Sinister pushed a button that she never expected. 

"I see you recall the name," Sinister said almost as if he was surprised, but with a clever malicious undercurrent that tinged almost everything that came out of his mouth. 

"Score one for you Mr. Fucking High and Mighty," Domino said more flippantly than she felt by far. Milo Thurman was indeed a man from her past, a special man -- probably the only _other_ man she ever loved. 

It seemed so long ago -- and utterly strange sitting here in front of Sinister recalling how she met Milo. While working for the government, she had been tasked with protecting him, and unexpectedly fell in love. His special ability made him extremely valuable and there were many dangerous parties interested in using Milo...and would stop at nothing to get him. One such group did just that and tried to steal him. She foiled the attempt saving his life, but for some reason, he had never tried to contact her again. 

For a time, she consoled herself by believing that it had something to do with the secretive nature of his work for the government, or that maybe he felt that he was just too much of a danger to her. But she finally reconciled herself to the fact that maybe he didn't feel the same way about her. Her own seemingly inherent fears about relationships that involved serious commitments kept her from trying to contact him. Or the fact that she was just plain fucked up when it came to relationships. 

Years later she discovered that some of the more shadowy elements of the government had marked him for termination. Without any hesitation, she decided to come to Milo's rescue once again. Another group of nuts got there before her, kidnapping him. She tried saving him from the kidnappers and fucked up -- and he died because of it. 

"I see I've caused you a bit of discomfort and that was not my intent. I meant no disrespect and understand your feelings of guilt pertaining to his demise." 

"You don't understand shit," she snapped with more emotion than she would have liked. 

"What I mean," Sinister responded firmly, "is that I feel that _I_ am partially responsible for his death." 

"What the hell do you mean by that?" Domino's face darkened, her tone deadly serious. She felt herself leaning out of her chair, Sinister's throat her target. 

"Please calm yourself," Sinister said recognizing her posture. "You realize full well that you can do nothing to harm me, and I do not wish to see you or anyone else get hurt." 

There was an implicit warning in those words and they were spoken with such an inhuman calmness, that for the first time she realized how truly helpless she was against Sinister. She hated that and hated him -- and his aura of invincibility, but wasn't stupid enough to believe he was making an idle boast. She had seen him physically manhandle Cable like he was a toy, and had watched as he took out all of X-Force with no more than a passing thought. Sinister was way out of her league. 

"Why...what did you have to do with Milo's death?" Domino asked reluctantly, not quite keeping the anger completely out of her voice. 

"His ability would have been somewhat useful to someone like myself," Sinister went on in an even tone. I had meant to _intervene_ on his behalf during his stay with the Government. Then that fool Pierce set a chain of events in motion that resulted in an unfortunate outcome for your friend Mr. Thurman. I was distracted at the time and moved too late to prevent what occurred." 

"Big shit. You would have just used Milo just like everyone else," Domino said disgustedly. 

"Perhaps, but he would still be alive today if it were not for my uncharacteristic procrastination. Although I did meet with him once, long before you'd ever heard of him. I told him a bit about myself, attempting to determine if his gift could apply to the future of individuals as well." Sinister smiled as if he was recalling a pleasant memory. "After our little conversation, certain things -- about me disturbed him to a respectable degree. You may recall he had an odd obsession with Dante's Inferno, which you might say could be attributed to me." Sinister looked contemplative for a moment and then shook his head. Perhaps there are some parallels between Dante Alighieri's droll sense of humor and my own, but I got the impression that it had more to do his description of the underworld -- the circles of hell, and its _proprietor_." 

Sinister waved his hands dismissively. "Don't mind me. I tend to read into things much more than I should." 

Domino regarded Sinister with both anger and amazement. Was there anything this son of a bitch didn't know? She had such a fond recollection of Milo's love for Dante's Inferno. She had kept his copy of the book, treasured it, and committed his favorite passages to memory. She couldn't believe Milo's devotion to the book had anything to do with Sinister. She would _not_ believe it. Just another petty comment meant to hurt or unnerve her. 

Domino glanced down at a knife sitting on the table in front her and felt her hands clench and unclench. She would have literally leapt across the table and cut out Sinister's heart right then and there...if she thought he had one. 

"Let me return to the matter at hand," Sinister said evenly, as if he what he had just said was nothing more than a passing comment. "I am not trying to assuage your guilt nor am I attempting to placate my own conscience, but I did try to salvage something from that unfortunate episode." 

A terrifying thought suddenly sprung into her mind. "You didn't fucking clone him...? 

"No, no" Sinister said shaking his head adamantly. "Cloning genius, especially the rare variety of Mr. Thurman's genius is next to impossible. And despite what you might think of me my dear, I would not invite you here to reveal something with the express purpose of hurting you. No doubt you will find what I am about to say most distasteful, but it is nonetheless the truth." 

"Get on with it," she said, both hostility and trepidation shading her tone. 

"_I_ saw to it that the government told him you were dead," Sinister suddenly said bluntly. "He believed that you were killed saving his life -- that you sacrificed yourself for him." 

A deadly silence fell between them. "Why would you do that?" Domino said slowly, her eyes and tone sharpening. 

"Because of Nathan of course," Sinister said, like it was common knowledge and that was all the explanation that was necessary. 

"Why don't you help me out a little here Einstein and stop playing your fucking mind games?" 

"Many mutants possess what you would call passive powers, ones that they really have no direct control over. While many of these powers are not overtly impressive, I assure you they are extremely potent...yours for instance. The mutant ability that you possess and has been coined as simply 'good luck,' or that 'everything has a way of falling into place for you', is anything but simple." 

Sinister went on, his expression one of fascination. "To influence probability to degrees required to keep you alive for instance -- an incredible amount of variables need to be considered and influenced in almost the blink of an eye to affect the outcome of any event. Trust me when I tell you the amount of psionic energy expended is staggering. And do you realize that you are able to influence things on a quantum level to make what you do possible? That in turn translates into effecting the visible and tangible world -- that which we perceive with our senses. For example, a perfectly operating firearm pointed at you suddenly jams. You ingest a poison that would kill ten men and it mysteriously becomes inert. Somehow, you do this all subconsciously or possibly instinctually without any direct use of your power." 

"After years of study," Sinister said incredulously, "I have been unable to duplicate it nor have I truly been able to understand it -- even though some variation of your ability exists in two other mutants." 

"So how the hell does all of this tie into Nathan and Milo?" Domino asked, her expression one of complete confusion. 

"I have invested a great deal of time in fashioning a mutant of Nathan's abilities. As you well know, his lifestyle is rather perilous. How could I ensure, or least improve Nathan's chance of survival? In a moment of divine inspiration, which is quite common considering my intellect, a brilliant idea sprung into my mind." Sinister said, with an insufferably pleased expression. "I wondered if there was a way to have your power somehow extend to Nathan. It would be necessary to augment your power a bit in order to encompass both yourself and Nathan -- have your good luck rub off on him so to speak. But there were inherent problems with that. I needed your ability to bend the laws of probability in your favor and extend only to him and not those around you. If I could not find a means to direct the focus, your probability altering powers would be too diffuse and completely ineffectual. But as I predicted...and planned," Domino could see that insolent gleam of satisfaction in Sinister's eyes, "feelings between you and Nathan formed and grew. From that, a telepathic link blossomed between the two of you. As is the case between the most powerful of pscions, those who share the deepest of emotions for one another, a rare type of psychic rapport forms." 

Sinister leaned forward, as if to drive his point home. "Tenuous at first, as the relationship grows, this most uncommon bond solidifies, becoming a permanent link. This link can be so profound, almost spiritual in nature that to lose it, would be like cutting off an arm or a leg. Through that link, which serves as a way for you and Nathan to communicate on so many levels, also serves as a conduit for your rare type of psionic energy. I believe that the bond between you is so strong, your probability altering powers can no longer determine the difference between you, and a portion of your _protection_ is extended to Nathan." 

"Of course none of this would have been possible...if you were still involved with Mr. Thurman." Sinister lightly tapped his index finger against his lips, patiently waiting for Domino's reaction. 

She knew her mouth was wide open but didn't care. What Sinister had just told her, if true, was incredible. But that wasn't what had her so furious. The fucking audacity -- the balls of Sinister's manipulations knew no bounds. _He fucking stepped in and for all intents and purposes, figured a way to cleverly get Milo out of her life so she would...so she would take up with Nathan,_ she thought incredulously. 

Something else suddenly occurred to her. "I... I don't ever remember you doing anything to me..." she stammered disbelievingly. She threw her head back. "I must be an asshole. You're a fucking telepath. You did something to me against my will." 

"Quite the contrary my dear. I had your complete cooperation and permission," Sinister said adamantly. 

"Bullshit." 

Sinister sighed impatiently. "When I first approached you about my idea, you were very intrigued from the start. I explained things about Nathan, his role concerning Apocalypse, much of which you already knew. I explained the rather remote chances he stood at surviving the future he had dedicated his life to. I presented you with a hopeful option, a way to help him -- a way which would put you by his side." 

"I can't believe that I...." 

"That you would what? Wouldn't you do anything for Nathan, Beatrice, anything?" Sinister asked her earnestly. "Does what I propose sound so outlandish? You would lay down your life for Nathan without a second thought for your own safety. If I offered you the same opportunity today, right now, -- a way to help protect Nathan against all of his enemies -- do you really believe that you would turn me down?" 

She refused to answer his question, nor would she openly buy into what he was saying -- although she heard the truth in his words. She also ignored the sting of hearing Sinister call her by the name that Milo used to call her, but would find a way to punish him for it. "But why would you make me forget everything related...?" 

"Oh come now Domino," Sinister impatiently cut her off again. "What would Nathan say if he found out you were dealing with the likes of me -- and behind his back after all? Of course you didn't know me back then, but I reminded you that Nathan was from the future -- and that history hadn't painted the kindest picture of me. It was a very difficult decision for you to make. You didn't trust me, yet I displayed some of the technology at my disposal and convinced you that I could do what I claimed." 

"You arrived at the conclusion that if Nathan was made aware of what you had done," Sinister stopped speaking for a moment, and seemed to choose a different way to say what he had in mind. "You were afraid that if he knew that _I_ tampered with you, and you did this on your own accord...Well, Nathan believes that I am responsible for so much harm to him and his family. He must have confided in you about how much he hates me. And he is a rather stubborn fellow, is he not? He is also a very powerful telepath and would have eventually read it from your mind. He would never have understood and would have seen it as a betrayal. You know the way he thinks in matters of this sort...there is no middle ground. But you wisely felt you knew what would be best for him, as you always have," Sinister added, in an almost patronizing manner. "You allowed me to augment your power and remove all the memories pertaining to our _involvement."_

Sinister could see that Domino was having difficulty absorbing everything he had said. "I know this is difficult to believe simply on good faith." Sinister slid a disk across the table, but only far enough so that Domino would have to reach out to take it. "If you wish to regain the lost memories that we spoke of, let Professor Xavier review the contents of this disk. It will enable him to unlock the memories in question. His expertise will also be able to confirm that they are indeed authentic and not fabricated." 

Sinister had all his bases covered. What else should she have expected? But what was his angle? Would she have done something like that? To protect Nathan, would she have made a deal with Sinister? "How could you know -- how could you know that Nathan and I...would form that link?" 

"If you don't mind me saying, you are a rather comely female and Nathan is a full red blooded...Askani. You are a bit too mercurial for my tastes but we are talking about Nathan, not me. You and he think a good deal alike. You're both alone, needy, and often in life-threatening situations. It isn't that far fetched that you two would develop feelings for one another. I also have a rather good track record for matchmaking if I don't say so myself. Isn't that right...Scott?" 

Domino turned and saw that Scott Summers was standing ten feet away watching them both. "Scott I..." 

"You don't owe me any explanation Domino," he said not looking at her but kept his gaze fixed on Sinister. "I didn't follow you here either Dom. Sinister obviously made two appointments. You over-booked _Dr. Milbury,"_ Scott said caustically. 

"Punctuality is a most admirable trait, Scott. Don't spoil it by being trite." 

"The reason that you wanted to meet here, in the Waldorf -- wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that this is where I first found out that Jean was still alive, would it?"(5) 

"Scott, you wound me. Do you really believe that I am capable of such petty and contemptible behavior? Like many people with refined tastes, I happen to enjoy the simple ambience as well as the exquisite amenities this hotel has to offer. Although, I must admit that this place also holds a special place in my own heart because it is where you were reunited with your lovely wife." 

Scott walked up to the table and stood behind Domino. 

Sinister continued, an expression of false sincerity on his face. "That must have really come as quite a relief -- for several reasons. I don't think I ever apologized for _introducing_ you, so to speak to Madelyne. That was terribly rude of me and truly inexcusable. I just can't attribute one thing or explain what led that girl astray. Perhaps it was poor upbringing. Who can truly say?" Sinister said, as the corners of his mouth turned upwards slightly, showing the faintest hint of a smile. 

"You really enjoy doing this to people, don't you? Manipulating lives, tearing into the most vulnerable and personal places every normal human being has. Like what you did to my son," Scott sputtered with bitter resentment. 

"I only told him the truth -- about himself and his life. Why don't you sit down Scott -- so I can do the same for you?" 

* * *

**References**:  
[1]X-Force #57  
[3]Cable #28   
[3]Cable #6   
[4]Domino LS #1   
[5]X-Factor #1 


	13. Chapter 12

Note; _This chapter contains some mature language._

* * *

A TEST OF POWER

**BY DR**

Chapter 12

It is at night  
that faith in light is admirable.  
Edmond Rostand  
1907

_The present_

* * *

Domino watched as Sinister sat back in the chair, a self-satisfied look on his face. He spared only a casual glance to watch his words have their desired effect on Scott's psyche. He gently swirled the rose colored liquid in his glass, impeccably deft as he sampled the bouquet and took a modest sip of the imported wine. In an instant, all of Sinister's attention was entirely devoted to his beverage as she and Scott were relegated to simple background noise and deemed unimportant or insignificant. 

No longer the principle object of Sinister's scrutiny, she was able to observe how everything was so carefully choreographed and expertly orchestrated, even their environment. The overly expensive surroundings of the posh hotel were so ideal, so respectable, but was nothing more than window dressing that was used as a means to make them feel inadequate and out of place. She could almost appreciate his skill if she weren't so disturbed by the notion of what he was doing. Scott to his credit, didn't allow himself to be cowed or disarmed. 

"Is this where you're going to tell me all these mysterious things that only you know...about myself, my family, maybe even you." Scott walked around from behind Domino, uncharacteristically raising his voice, too angry to worry about being overheard. "I can't tell what it is you're after but you're causing a lot of pain and suffering to people I care about...under the absurd guise of coming clean?" Scott asked incredulously. "I'm not buying any of it and I want it to stop." 

"If you are going to bellow like Logan, Domino and I are going to insist that you leave. Up until now, we've been having such a pleasant repast," Sinister said, taking the napkin off his lap and gently tossing it on the table pretending to be put-off by Scott's tone. 

Domino almost choked on the small sip of water she had allowed herself. 

"I also don't think you are in any position to make demands Scott, and I will not apologize for telling the truth." Sinister said firmly. "I believe your esteemed Professor spends much too much time honing all your martial skills and instead should try and teach you some simple manners." 

Scott clenched his teeth and felt foolish for trying to elicit the truth behind any of Sinister's recent actions. "You wanted me here...and I'm here. I'm not interested in any verbal fencing or repartee. Just get to the point of why you wanted to talk to me," Scott responded impatiently. 

Sinister shook his head as if he were disappointed. "I believe it's wise if we go someplace else." 

"Why is that? Am I embarrassing you?" Scott asked more annoyed than curious. 

Sinister shrugged. "You more than anyone else has cause to hate me." 

"So what's new about that?" Scott snapped. "After everything that you've done to my son, who could blame me? I also don't get the impression that you're used to being liked by anyone -- or even care one way or the other." Although Scott sounded like he understood what Sinister had meant, he was confused by what he thought was a strange statement. 

"You'd be surprised," Sinister said sounding hurt. "But I suppose from your limited perspective it seems that I've done nothing but hurt him -- and despite what you undoubtedly must think, I've always had Nathan's best interests in mind. But I assure you that there is much more -- that has absolutely nothing to do with Nathan." 

"Yeah, you've done enough to me, my family, my friends, but it's safe to say you've caused plenty of heartache to a lot of _other_ people as well. But what does that have to do with us going someplace else?" Scott asked. 

"You are misinterpreting my meaning Scott. I've hurt _you_ personally, in more ways than you are aware of. You are going to be very angry with me...angry enough to overcome all of your formidable self-control. Let me assure you, it is not my intention to frighten you," Sinister said, his piercing stare belying the benign words he had spoken, "but you _will_ want to know what I have to say and I strongly doubt you will find any of it pleasant." 

Scott said nothing and showed no outward emotion but felt his heart beat so loud that for a moment, he thought he and others could hear it in the crowded room. It was key or important events that suddenly flashed through his mind, which caused a wave of anxiety to wash over him. Without any thought with respect to self-pity, he knew his life was rife with an unusually high number of what could only be described as unfortunate incidents. Sinister was immortal, and had been alive as well as utterly capable when Scott was nothing but a helpless child -- when Scott knew nothing about mutants, genetics, and evil scientists. 

An even more disturbing thought occurred to Scott. Sinister had complete knowledge of him long before he was ever even born. That was because both he and Jean were enlisted to undertake an important mission on behalf of the Askani. Their journey took them into the past...Sinister's past, to prevent Apocalypse from plundering that early century. Because of it, Sinister knew who he and Jean would become, and probably had samples of their DNA for all those years...and discovered what the potential of their offspring might be. What would Sinister have done to insure that both he and Jean played the roles that he ascribed for them? What parts of his life and _other_ lives did Sinister engineer to obtain the insane results he desired. _Shit,_ he thought to himself. Why the hell had this never occured to him before? 

"When you say it's a good idea if we go someplace else...do you mean a less public place...because of what my reaction might be?" Scott asked with icy calm. 

Sinister nodded his head slowly. 

Scott made his decision quickly. "OK, let's go." 

Sinister stood, somehow looking even taller then before. Domino noticed that there wasn't a single crease or wrinkle in his jacket or pants. _Why would there be?_ she thought, realizing how foolish her observation had been. The pants, the suit jacket, even the tie, they weren't separate pieces of material, they were all him. 

"If you'd be kind enough to follow me, there is a service hallway beyond these doors that is very rarely used," Sinister said, as he opened the door and stepped into a deserted hallway. 

Scott and Domino trailed after Sinister, both of them feeling suddenly vulnerable as the door closed leaving the crowded room behind. The three of them were now completely alone and the thorough silence contrasted with the noisy room adding to their sense of apprehension. 

Immediately feeling their discomfort, Sinister offered a plausible explanation for their location. "There is no need to upset the hotel guests," Sinister smiled and opened up a tesseract doorway, "by letting them see this." 

Domino stepped forward. "I'm going with you," she said to Scott and glared at Sinister spitefully. 

Scott gently placed his hand on her shoulder. "It's OK Dom. I'll be all right," Scott said earnestly. "Please go back to the mansion and tell Professor Xavier who I'm with and that I'll be back in a few hours. He turned his back to Sinister and spoke just above a whisper. "And Dom, sit down and talk to Nathan and tell him everything you know, even what you're unsure about. I know you both care about each other a great deal. Nothing he can say," he motioned his head in Sinister's direction, "nothing he can say will ever have any effect on that." 

She gave him a small smile. "Do all you Summers' have to do everything single-handedly? I can see where Nathan gets his stubborn streak from." 

"You should let me tell you a few stories about when he was a kid. He wrote, printed, and published the book on stubborn," Scott said with an exasperated sigh. "Take my advice and talk with Nathan -- he needs someone like you desperately in his life -- despite what he says," Scott said seriously but with a warm smile. 

"I will," she answered solemnly, "and be careful," she added giving Sinister one more malicious look. 

"We should do this again, Beatrice," Sinister said, a charming smile on his face. "I truly enjoyed your company. You are so urbane and such a warm and wonderful conversationalist." 

Before she could reply, Sinister had already turned his back on her. "Shall we?" Sinister motioned to the tesseract doorway, and both he Scott stepped through and were gone. 

There was a spilt second of disorientation and then Scott felt a bitterly cold wind strike his face. He immediately recognized his surroundings. They were at his grandparents cabin, in small town outside of Anchorage, Alaska. This is where he had met Sinister once before -- when Sinister had revealed Stryfe's part in creating the Legacy virus.(1) 

He remembered that it was such a strange conversation, even as conversations with Sinister go. He had _almost_ seemed sympathetic to the X-Men's plight. Scott recalled his words about Stryfe's reason for infecting this world with the virus. He said it was revenge against both he and Jean -- as well as a way to bring death to Xavier's dream. Sinister had said it was the worst kind of death for people like Scott, who had strived so hard to fight for the dream. He didn't know what to make of it at the time...and still didn't. 

"Well, you picked a deserted enough place. We're certainly not going to be disturbed...not like last time I hope," Scott said with a dour expression on his face. 

"Oh, you must be referring to the Dark Riders. I am quite certain that we won't be disturbed by them." Sinister responded firmly. "If I recall, we made a rather lasting impression on that presumptuous group of fools." 

"Yup -- one of us sure did. You left me alone to fight them by myself," Scott said, disgusted by another memory of Sinister's treacherous conduct. 

"That's strange, I don't quite recall that particular detail," Sinister said, feigning innocence. 

"So?" Scott prompted Sinister having lost his patience. 

"The place to begin...always the most difficult part of relating a story this _type,"_ Sinister said, tapping his index finger gently against his lips, seemingly having trouble organizing his thoughts. 

After just a moment of hesitation, Sinister began to speak in what Scott could only describe as a conciliatory tone. 

"Let me begin by saying that I had nothing to do with your parents plane crash including any and all events that led to the emergence of your mutant power." 

Scott almost took a threatening step forward and then stopped himself. He still reflexively reached for one of the arms of his _sunglasses_ -- ready to remove them. "That's an interesting place to start, because after what you've just told me, that's the very first thing that came into my mind." 

"Please suppress your more volatile emotions and do try to handle this situation with equanimity. They serve no purpose. And while you've arrived at one possible and perhaps logical conclusion, it is nonetheless incorrect. What do you recall about the time you spent at the orphanage in Nebraska?" Sinister abruptly asked. 

Scott felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His earlier supposition about Sinister's role in his life when he was just a child was suddenly all too real. He decided to play along in order to determine where Sinister was going with this. He also decided to answer Sinister's question as honestly as he could. 

"That was a long time ago and I haven't thought about that period of my life for many years. But like most kids who were placed in that kind of home, I remember a lot of the good things...and have tried to forget about as many of the bad things as I was able. "Why are you asking about that particular time of my life?" he inquired, not trying to keep out the suspicious tone out of his voice. 

"Because I was able to share a good deal of that time _with_ you...quite closely in fact," Sinister answered. "You must remember your roommate Nate?" he inquired. Sinister shook his head from side to side and then sighed. "I suppose I was never that clever with names." 

Once again he felt his body react instinctively to Sinister's words, as he had the sensation of an icy chill run up his spine. "How did you know about Nate? You couldn't have..." He stopped speaking abruptly, remembering how peculiar Nate had been -- how there had been nothing childlike about him. Scott thought if he could see himself, his mouth must have open so wide that his chin was probably touching the ground. 

"The State Home for Foundlings. Personally, I have so many fond memories of that charitable establishment. The time we fought together against the Dark Riders so reminded me of the playground where you leapt to my defense against Toby...you remember Toby Rails?(2) He was such a belligerent young lad, always ready to fight." 

Scott chewed his lower lip, thinking how he could possibly respond to this unbelievable claim. "Yeah he was," Scott said tentatively, his adaptable nature already adjusting to the possibility that what Sinister had just said was true. 

Like it was yesterday, he was easily able to recall Nate's strange nature, always hovering around him, offering advice, and telling him to trust no one but him. Even as a child, he remembered that there was something he just didn't like about Nate but could never quite put his finger on it. A gut instinct that told him that there was something off about Nate -- something sour. Even many of the adults had been scared of him. 

_Jesus Christ, Nate was Sinister_, Scott thought. No matter how utterly bizarre the possibility sounded, Scott's intuition told him that this nightmarish prospect was true. "Let's say I buy that you were _Nate_, my roommate at the orphanage. Why the hell were you there masquerading as a kid?" 

"After the tragic plane crash -- your condition was rather grave. I saved your life Scott," Sinister said bluntly and with a touch of possessive pride. "Your skull was crushed and you had suffered irreparable brain damage -- irreparable to the medical science of that time, but not to me. I repaired your injuries but you needed the time to heal. I needed an environment where I could not only observe you, but also interact with you in certain predetermined ways. In that manner, I was able to help foster your mental repair and insure that the damage in no way jeopardized the development of your mutant powers. An orphanage, where I was just another _lost boy_, was the setting and guise that I decided would best serve my purposes." 

A chilly silence descended between the two of them. "Toby stepped off a roof and killed himself," Scott said with an unreadable expression on his face. 

"Yes he did. I tolerated his actions for a time as again, they served a purpose. But I have an extreme dislike for bully's." 

"You don't like bully's?" Scott scoffed incredulously, his voice rising an octave. "You...you forced a thirteen year-old boy to jump from that roof," Scott shouted, his voice thick with emotion. "I remember that Nate...that _you_ wanted him to jump," Scott said through clenched teeth. 

"I did no such thing," Sinister snapped back as if offended. "The boy was a product of an extremely abusive household. I merely removed certain fears he had of doing himself harm. In the end, the choice was entirely his. Trust me when I say the boy would have grown up to be a homicidal maniac. What I did was best for everyone...including Toby," Sinister said without a shred of remorse. 

"You actually believe what you're saying...you rationalize everything," Scott said shaking his head, both anger and distress coloring his tone. 

"Perhaps, but there are some things that occurred in that orphanage, which even I have difficulty rationalizing," Sinister said, his eyes indifferent, looking like empty holes leading into a dead soul. 

Scott felt his heart stop and the frigid air temperature drop another few degrees. "What else did you do?" Scott heard what sounded like his own voice utter the question, but wasn't sure that it had come from him. 

"I _coerced_ the head administrator, a Mr. Pearson from approving any potential parents from adopting either you or your brother. Eventually, I saw to it that Alex was placed in a good home. The Blanding family, a household I handpicked myself after long and careful scrutiny, was just what he needed.(3) Surely Alex must have spoken of them from time to time." 

"Although Alex and I were never openly close, he often spoke about his adoptive mother and father -- and how much he cared for them. He's still very close to his adoptive sister, Haley. But it would have been too much," Scott stammered with rage, his voice dripping with spite, "too damn much to let Alex and I be adopted by the same family -- keep us together." 

"I don't deny that it was...unfair, separating you from your brother. But at the time, I had other plans for you that kept you in the orphanage." Sinister sounded more embarrassed -- if that was even possible, than apologetic. 

"Did you stop Mr. Pearson from..." Scott stopped and asked a different or more direct question. "Is that what happened to the Bogart's...Trish and Rick?" Scott asked. 

Again, the memories came back to him, the images clear and vivid...as well the pain. He was surprised that even after all these years, the disappointment of not being adopted by the Bogart's felt like a raw newly opened wound. He remembered what good and decent people the Bogart's were. He still recalled with such fondness the compassion exhibited by Colonel Bogart when a teary eyed twelve year-old boy cried on his shoulder. That boy had been him, and at the time, he had wanted nothing more than to be part of a loving family. He could also remember Rick's promise, and the genuine sincerity in which it was said -- that after he and Trish returned from a necessary trip, they would do everything in their power to make him a part of their family. 

He remembered his own response to that promise. For the first time he allowed himself to hope, allowed himself to believe -- and called Rick... dad. 

"What happened to the Bogart's?" Scott asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"I killed them."(4) Sinister's answer was delivered without any consideration to care or kindness, but was simply blunt and succinct. 

Scott began to hear a loud roaring in his ears and felt the pressure begin to build in his head -- just like the headaches he used to get when he lived in the orphanage. Somehow he was still able to think clearly enough to form a question. "Why couldn't you use your powers, your telepathy to just make them forget about me? That's what you did to Robyn, isn't it?" Scott asked tremulously. 

Robyn Hanover was a medical doctor who came to work at the orphanage when Scott was twelve years old. She was a rare and caring human being, who had taken a personal interest in Scott. In turn, Scott had come to trust her and eventually began to care a great deal about her as well. 

"Colonel Bogart was a very dynamic and determined individual. He would have eventually found a way to adopt you and...and I wasn't quite ready to allow that to happen. I took a much less dramatic approach with Dr. Hanover -- but just as effective. I simply _muted_ Dr. Hanover's...Robyn's emotions, subdued her compassion so to speak. The result was that you were no longer the focus of her attentions." 

"I simply...," Scott repeated what Sinister had just said, his tone overly arrogant, mocking. "I remember how she was never the same after that. I was just a kid and always thought it was something I had done." A hysterical edge had crept into Scott's tone. "You took away everything that made her special, her caring, her unselfish passion for helping people...you made her an emotional cripple. You took away her soul. It was no different, you killed her too, just like the Bogart's, except you hurt her even more!" Scott cried as he tore off his glasses and an optic blast erupted from his eyes. 

For the better part of Scott's life, he had literally saw nothing but the color _red_. But for the first time, he felt he had a grasp of the color itself a natural affinity. He now understood why he could indentify with it and why there was nothing strange about the fact that he now felt red, ate red, inhaled and exhaled red. It was the color red that was at his molten core and felt like a festering ulcer in his belly. It now fueled the blistering emotions that wanted nothing more than to see the color red splattered everywhere...._blood_ red. He responded impulsively, emotionally, his mutant power welling up inside of him like never before, craving release. This was the way he always felt his mutant power wanted him to behave, wild and unrestrained. Up until now, he had never allowed himself to lose control -- up until now. 

The ruby red beam ripped through Sinister's head, its power undiminished as the crimson shaft cleaved a path into the evergreen oak thicket that surrounded the house. The concussive force of the optic blast smashed the trunks of huge trees, the splintering wood producing multiple earsplitting snaps. They were launched high into the air like matchsticks until they came crashing down into the canopy of neighboring trees. A huge boulder was pulverized by the force of the very same beam, nothing but a cloud gray dust and a few pebbles remained of the granite rock. 

It wasn't enough. The area on Sinister's body where the beam had made contact with immediately reformed. Most of the beams energy just passed through him. His body was whole again, showing no signs that he had been touched. 

Scott raged at Sinister, firing blast after blast. Sinister was inhumanly quick, agile, moving like some ghost-white demon. Some of his optic blasts made contact, while others, he was incredibly able to avoid. Scott fired at Sinister's feet, turning ice, rocks and dirt into dangerous projectiles that would have killed or wounded most any being. Sinister just shrugged off the attack and didn't seem harmed in the slightest. 

Scott then changed his tactics, gouging large areas out from under Sinister's feet, in an attempt to create a huge trench to ensnare him. He then planned on collapsing the trench, burying Sinister alive under tons of debris. But no matter how many times or how large he made the holes, Sinister was incredibly able to find firm footing and never once fell into any of his traps. 

He felt himself tiring, his optic blasts weakening. The sky was completely cloud covered and the sun that was behind those clouds was low in the sky and weak. His energy reserves were almost completely expended and his ability to absorb solar energy would be of little help in this environment especially with the current weather conditions. A stray but now unfortunately rendered moot thought passed through his reputedly strategic mind. He wondered if Sinister had moved their meeting place here, where his ability to absorb solar energy was most certainly limited. 

In a desperate attempt, he ran straight at Sinister, firing with everything he had, running the beam up and down the full length of Sinister's body. He watched in horror as Sinister's body formed and reformed a shifting globule of jelly, rippling, changing shape. It was similar to squeezing the center of a balloon -- two smaller balloons just formed on either side of your hand...overall the balloon's size and mass were unchanged. No matter how hard he tried, could not get Sinister's form to lessen or fully break apart. He was now no more than a foot away when his optic beam began to sputter. Almost impossible to believe, an arm suddenly formed from an unrecognizable amorphous mass and grabbed his head and drove it into the ground with a punishing force. His last coherent thought was about Nathan, and that he had failed him once again. 

* * *

_A few days before..._

He went looking for Nathan immediately after the Professor informed him that he had returned from his meeting with Sinister. Charles thought it might be wiser if Scott spoke to Nathan first. For some reason, the Professor believed that a _father-son_ type chat might be good for the both of them. Scott wasn't too sure if it was indeed a wiser course of action, but was anxious to hear what Sinister had to say to his son. The Professor was perfectly content to speak with Nathan later. 

He found Nathan alone in the kitchen, an all too familiar pensive look on his face. He was unsure if he should intrude on his son's thoughts -- or maybe was afraid to was a more appropriate way to describe it. Nathan was such a private person and he would never consciously seek to unburden himself or share any of his problems with anyone -- especially him. And he knew from his own personal experience that after meeting with Sinister, you were usually left with more questions than answers. And the things he said...that black hearted self-serving bastard had hurt him and his family all too often. 

He stood a few feet from the entrance, but had a clear view of the interior of the kitchen. Nathan was looking down, his elbows resting on his lap seemingly oblivious to his presence. He watched his son for a good ten seconds before entering the room, all the while knowing that Nathan knew that he was being observed. 

He could stare at his son for hours -- just like he had when Nathan was a little boy in the nightmarish future that Apocalypse had created. Sometimes he tried to reconcile that innocent face with the battle-hardened one that he was staring at now. He was always thankful that what he was searching for was always there. 

Although many years older and an accumulation of battle scars enough for a hundred soldiers, behind it all he could still incredibly make out the face of an innocent little boy. It seemed so long ago that Nathan was just a lonely and desperate child, who would confide all his fears to him. He remembered Nathan's innocent trust in him, -- the complete childlike certainty that _Slym_ could make any and all hurt go away. He remembered how much that made him feel like a father, and how much he cherished that feeling, longed for it -- and now how much he missed it. He also remembered how that very same boy when worried, would interlace all of his fingers, palms face up and gently tap both of his thumbs together and intensely scrutinize this action as if some wisdom could be gleaned from this accomplishment -- just as he was doing now. 

"Do you mind if I sit down?" Scott asked. 

Cable motioned towards the seat next to him, although his expression was not particularly inviting. 

Scott decided not to beat around the bush, it was useless with Nathan anyway. "So, what did he say?" he asked with a casualness he didn't feel. 

Nathan lifted his head, a weary look in his eyes. "He said a lot of things." He quickly went over the more _fantastic_ parts of Sinister's story speaking freely and with very little hesitation. To Scott's credit, he took it all in offering his own opinions and much to Nathan's own surprise, believed what Sinister had related. 

"If half of what he said was true, those are some incredible revelations. I think the Professor is going to be very interested in hearing all of it." Scott went on hesitantly, trying to chose his words carefully. "But he said something else, something more personal," Scott said more as a statement of fact rather than a question. 

Nathan sighed. He could never get anything by his father, not now, and not when he was...younger. "He questioned my motives, my objectives...said they were no different from his." He ran his hands through his silver hair and Scott couldn't be sure but he almost thought he saw his son shudder. "He also said the methods I used were just as bad or maybe worse than any he used." Cable laughed harshly. "You know something, that's the first time that that lying bastard ever said something which I could tell was the truth." 

"Come on Nathan," Scott said softly, "this is Sinister we're talking about. That's what he does best. He makes you question yourself, puts doubt in your mind for whatever screwed up or sadistic reasons he has." 

"Jesus Scott," Cable said irritably. "I'm not a flonqing Xavier rookie. I know when that manipulative flonq is trying to mess with my head, but what he said was true...or pretty close to it," he added faintly. 

An uncomfortable quiet descended between them. Scott waited about a minute, giving Nathan a chance to speak first, and then decided to break the silence himself. "Do you want to tell me about something Nathan?" Scott asked tentatively recognizing his son's mood. A more forceful approach and Nathan would shut down completely. 

For a second, the familiar _mind your own business_ fire flashed into Cable's eyes but quickly faded as he decided to talk -- and then astonishingly, opened up completely. 

"I could do a lot of things that a normal or even the best mutant soldiers couldn't," Nathan said abruptly. "A real wonder kid even among the genetically gifted -- but I guess that's the way Sinister made me," he said not trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I didn't have just one mutant ability but a baker's dozen. I learned to use them in clever ways -- sometimes individually, or even a couple simultaneously if I concentrated hard enough. I guess the corporate types call that multi-tasking now, right?" a humorless smile crept across his face but never reached his eyes. 

He stood up abruptly and began to pace around the kitchen. "I could reach out with my telekinesis, grab and squeeze heart, pinch a windpipe, snap a spine. We were all well trained in human and mutant physiology -- and the number of ways they were vulnerable to someone with my _special_ abilities. Of course I was a flonqing telepath as well," Scott could hear the anger and hysterical anguish in his son's voice. "Do you know how many ways you can flonq with a soldier's head? You tend to get creative. Of course you try to mind-pick the officer's heads. Intel stuff, battle plans, troop strengths, weaknesses. But with a common grunt, you could make him think he sees something else, run him right into enemy fire, through a minefield -- a whole host of nasty things. Hell, you could even get them to fire on their own troops. That worked pretty well -- for a time." 

Scott shuddered but tried to keep all the signs of his physical tremor from being visible. Just as he saw first hand the horrors his son had endured when he and Jean traveled to the future, here again was evidence of the pain and torment his son had suffered because of Apocalypse and Sinister..and because of him. He quickly suppressed the spasm of heartache he felt for his son from reaching his face. He knew that Nathan would not speak of the things he endured because of what it would do to him and Jean. 

"Do you know what you find even when you lightly brush up against a soldier's mind -- when he's coming up against heavy fire?" Nathan went on, his voice becoming thick with emotion. "When he starts feeling like he might not make it out of where he is. Shit, you know first hand about the phenomenon -- when your life flashes in front of you? We both know it's true. A soldier thinks about the things that are most important to him. The people that he will never see again...friends, a wife, a husband, a mother and father, kids... Dehumanize the enemy. Isn't that what all the armies of the past recommended...made it a lot easier for soldiers to kill? That's kind of tough for a telepath. When you're in the middle of a battlefield, the thoughts are too strong and saturated with the most primal of emotions. It was too difficult to screen _everything_ out. And you know what? The vast majority of Apocalypse's dog soldiers and the big bad Canaanites, were just scared grunts. Sure you had your bad ass squad leaders making sure no one got out of line, but that wasn't the norm, just a bunch of scared kids...like most wars. Hell, what could you expect them to do? If you didn't fight on Apocalypse's side, you were a dead man...along with your family. Even if you didn't believe in the cause, that made for a pretty powerful motivator." 

Nathan opened a cabinet door and picked up a pot. He filled it with water, and then just placed it in the sink. "Even after I read their mind, I didn't let that stop me. Flonq it, I couldn't. Apocalypse was relentless. He would put more and more troops onto the field, his objective was by sheer numbers to overwhelm and completely exterminate every last bit of opposition. I killed men, women,..." his voice caught for a second, "by the hundreds, thousands. I'm not sure who has more blood on his hands anymore, me or Apocalypse." 

Nathan steadied himself, his voice taking on the tone of relating simple facts. "Of course Apocalypse's scientists found ways around my telepathic and telekinetic tampering -- electronic psi shields, psi scramblers. Then he came up with a few offensive things of his own -- kind of point, counterpoint. But Apocalypse always liked to make it more personal." 

Scott saw that Nathan's eyes looked empty, devoid of any life or compassion, and was frightened by whose eyes they reminded him of. 

"He began putting children on the field of battle -- boys, girls, it didn't matter, and the younger the better. And they were beautiful little kids, created from the best genetic pools, bred for their good looks." Nathan shook his head. "I can still remember, they had the most angelic features," his voice had the strangest wistful tone. "We understood this for what it was, an age old method used in many wars -- a tactic meant to demoralize the enemy." A hollow chuckle fell from his mouth. "We were battle-hardened warriors and pretended that it didn't bother us." 

Scott was unsure if he should say something at this point or even try to physically comfort his son. Anything might jeopardize this rare and Scott thought, beneficial catharsis. He didn't want to risk what he thought might help to heal the incredible number of emotional wounds his son seemed to have accumulated. He decided to let him speak until Nathan wanted to stop. 

"They were nasty little fighters. Some of Apocalypse's scientists found a way to download years of combat experience into the brains of these kids -- some as young as six, seven, and eight years of age. All it would take was a second of hesitation and these bright young lads would cut your throat. After you'd see them do that to a few of your friends," Nathan eyes looked at his father almost as if he were pleading for forgiveness, but you couldn't hear it in his voice, "well it wasn't too difficult to return the favor." 

"We've all done things that we're not too proud of," Scott said and then immediately regretted saying it. He couldn't believe how that came out -- banal and trite. 

"You don't understand," Nathan yelled and slammed his fist on the table before Scott could take back his words and offer something more substantial. "I want Apocalypse dead. I want to hear the very last beat of his heart and feel his skin grow cold underneath my fingertips. I want my own two hands around his neck, choking the life out of him while I reach into his mind and force-feed him every nightmare, every misery, every flonqing bit of pain and suffering he's visited on all his victims over the centuries. I want to package all that shit up and shove it up his ass, and I want him to know that it's me that's doing it...no one else!" 

Large beads of sweat had welled up Nathan's forehead -- Scott knew his son was losing control. 

Nathan snarled, his anger seemingly directed at Scott. "I want that more than anything I've ever wanted in my life. More than wanting something normal between me and Dom...more than I want Aliya back. I know what I've become -- and the scariest part is that I don't even care. Sinister flonqing knows and can see that. And do you know what's even worse -- I see the same thing in Sinister's eyes. I don't know what Apocalypse did to him, or what he did himself," Nathan wiped the sweat off his forehead, violently. "But behind all those manners, all that phony refined civility, I see someone who hates himself for what he is, what he's done. When I looked at Sinister the last time, I saw my eyes staring back at me." 

"I didn't come back two-thousand years for a visit and a cup of tea. I came back to kill someone...and along the way I killed a lot of people and I changed. I had to change. Whatever I've become...was necessary." 

"What you've become?" Scott asked softly, no longer able to keep silent or stop the pain from creeping into his voice. "We spent eight years...eight long years trying to make up for letting you go," Scott swallowed, "for giving you up. I'm not interested in the Askani'Son, or the Chosen, I'm only interested in my son -- his happiness. I'm only interested in making it up to you for my failure as a father. No child should have had to make all the sacrifices you've had to make, putting your own personal happiness aside time after time for some quest that was chosen for you. That's my quest...and no one and no prophesy is going to get in the way of that," Scott said with utter certainty in his voice. 

Some of the steam seemed to have gone out of Nathan. Just as Scott had thought, Nathan needed to get this off his chest so to speak. He seemed to have partially returned to himself. Scott's words had actually registered with him. 

"You don't have to..." 

"Maybe it's for me, Nathan. I'm not going to sit here and let you do this to yourself. We dance around each other like two adolescent kids dating. You're a telepath and I'm married to one and yet we can never say what's on our mind. But when I think back and see you lying on a table at death's door covered with techno-organic virus -- no child should have to go through that(5) -- and you went through a hell of a lot more than that, a lot of it by yourself. I asked myself then, how much more can my little boy take? I didn't do enough -- or maybe I did the wrong thing," he went on with a haunted look in his eyes. 

"I thought...," tears started to stream down Scott's face. "I thought maybe I had done the wrong thing -- maybe you were better off staying in our time, where you could have," Scott's voice caught, "where you could have died in peace and not gone through...everything you did." 

Nathan stopped him. "Scott, please," he said softly. 

He wouldn't be deterred. "I don't want to turn this into you making me try to feel better about my guilt. But I have to tell you how I feel so you can understand things about yourself, things that you can't see." 

Nathan sat back down and simply and surprisingly said, "go ahead." 

"Sometimes when I see you now, older than I am, bitter, cynical...it's difficult, so difficult," Scott stammered, worried about hurting Nathan more. "Again, I can't help seeing a sweet little boy and wanting him back. And I want everything done to that boy...my son, I want it all taken away. But that's not going to happen," Scott said with a humorless laugh. "So what am I left with? I'm left with a son...whose older than I am and whose literally been through hell and back...and, and after all that, is still everything I ever imagined a son could be." 

"You're nothing like them. You never were and you never will be. You know I'm proud of you Nathan...you know that?" Scott said with some insistence, letting Nathan know this wasn't a rhetorical question. 

Nathan simply nodded. "You know...that I feel, that I'm proud of what you gave me as a father, how you and Jean raised me." 

Scott laughed through his haze of emotion. "You think with all this honesty about how we feel, we're ready to go on Jerry Springer?" 

"Jerry who?" Nathan asked perplexed. 

"It doesn't matter. Although on second thought, the fact that he has a show on T.V. may be the true sign of the Apocalypse." 

Nathan just shook his head and then abruptly asked a question. 

"Do you remember when Jean prevented the transfer...of Apocalypse's essence into Stryfe?" 

"Do I remember? Of course I remember," Scott answered emphatically. "That's sort of how we killed Apocalypse." 

"What we killed wasn't Apocalypse." 

"What do you mean?" Scott asked dumbfounded. 

"I've been doing a lot of thinking about what Sinister said...other than wallowing in self-pity. I told you what Sinister told me about this being the one _true_ timeline -- the one from which all others originated from. As powerful as the Apocalypse from Rachel's timeline was -- he was also weaker in a lot of other ways." 

"Weaker? In what way?" Scott asked. 

"He was just a pale imitation of this timeline's Apocalypse -- an almost exact copy -- yes, but lacking key or core elements. It's almost as if...he had lost his way, his sense of purpose. It's difficult for me to explain because what I'm saying even sounds crazy to me. You saw what I saw when you and Jean were brought into the future. The city that Apocalypse ruled from -- the populace around him had grown lazy, decadent. The Apocalypse in our timeline would never tolerate that kind of behavior around him. It would disgust him and those people wouldn't be around for very long. 

"Was there something else?" Scott asked, seeing the distant look in Nathan's eyes. 

"There was something that Ch'vayre said," Nathan responded. "Something I actually read from his mind once -- his own thoughts about Apocalypse." 

"Apocalypse's Prelate -- the one who turned against him and helped us defeat him in the future?" Scott remembered. "What did you see in Ch'vayre's mind?" 

"I saw that he respected Apocalypse and that at one time, they shared the same goals. Apocalypse believed that the reason that mutants were as powerful as they were, was to ensure that all life here was respected and understood -- preserved. Mutants were protectors of Earth -- including all of humanity as well. That was their true strength.(6) But something went wrong. That timeline's Apocalypse wasn't up to the task -- was too weak." 

"So what are you saying?" Scott asked, worried about where Nathan was leading with this. 

"We shouldn't have been able to kill Apocalypse the way we did...if he had been himself -- even with Sinister's supposed help. Even given the opportunity, I don't think what we did will work with this timeline's Apocalypse...the _real_ Apocalypse -- and that worries me." 

"Tell me again, what did Sinister said about you fighting Apocalypse." 

"He said I couldn't beat him, even without the virus." 

"How is that possible?" Scott asked in disbelief. "Without the virus, you can do virtually anything." 

"I know...and that's what worries me even more," Nathan said, his face looking suddenly pale. 

* * *

_The present_

His head cleared and he was unaware of how long he had been unconscious. He turned over slowly, clearing the dirt and rocks from his face and eyes. Sinister was standing over him, gleaming red orbs staring with what Lucifer's eyes must of looked like glaring up from the pit. Sinister extended a hand to help him up. He stood up shakily -- on his own. 

"I must commend Professor Xavier. I attempted to wrest control of your mind so that we could avoid," Sinister waved his hands about in a dismissive manner, "all this unnecessary violence. But it seems he placed a few very clever trapdoors in your mind that almost rendered me unconscious. I'm glad to see that you came prepared to meet with me." 

"I'm glad you can't shut me down, because as soon as I recharge, I'm going to do this all over again. No matter how many times it takes me, I'm going to find a way to kill you," Scott said with his fists balled tightly at his sides as the veins in his neck swelled dangerously. 

"As I said before, you have good cause to hate me, but I was a different man back then Scott. You asked me...you asked me why I killed the Bogarts. Would you believe me if I told you that it was because of jealousy?" Sinister said, a curious expression on his face...one that Scott couldn't quite identify. "My old self saw the Bogarts and Dr. Hanover as nothing more than problems -- and I don't say this out of pride, but I was always very good at solving problems." 

"I don't give a damn what it was. You're a murderer -- a hundred times over. And I'm not your priest and I don't want to hear your confession," Scott shot back. 

"I don't suppose you do," Sinister said rather softly and without his usual biting sarcasm. "But believe me when I say that I wanted to help you back then and saw you as...my responsibility. It had been many years since I had been entrusted with that type of accountability. I tried so hard to earn your trust -- as Nate, yet it was Dr. Hanover and finally the Bogarts who you truly trusted and befriended. I lashed out because -- because I had the power. I had hoped that after a time, our relationship might progress to...Sinister incredibly fumbled for the right words, almost seeming reluctant to say them. "Not as father and son," Sinister said swallowing the words quickly as if they had escaped his mouth by their own volition, -- "but possibly two brothers..." 

"Stop," Scott screamed as he struck Sinister squarely in the jaw. It was like hitting a heavy canvas bag filled with oil...only thicker. Sinister didn't even blink. He swung again anyway, but this time Sinister merely held his up hand meeting Scott's fist with his open palm. His punch was stopped abruptly and Sinister gently closed his hand around Scott's fist to prevent him from making another attempt. Scott could feel the jarring impact in his shoulder but tore his hand away despite the biting pain. "You're insane," he screamed." 

"Perhaps I was...for a time, a long time, but the fog of grief that my mind has been enshrouded in has finally lifted. My mind is clear and I have come to understand that you and other are deserving of recompense -- for the damages I've caused." 

Scott heard nothing, his thoughts seething in red-hot anger. "I could have killed you right then and there. I could have blown that big arrogant brain right off your shoulders. I should have," Scott cried forcefully. 

"What are you talking about?" Sinister asked, truly perplexed. 

"When Jean and I visited your past. I had you in my sights, when you were nothing more than a vulnerable human being. I should have killed you dead. Maybe your wife and child would be alive today if I had," Scott said, his voice dripping with spite. 

"Ahh. Do I hear the pangs of regret in your voice Scott? Multiply that feeling by a hundred, and you have just an inkling of what I've experienced for over a century." 

"I regret _not_ killing you. What you're trying to sell me on is that you regret killing -- no murdering all the people you have. They're not quite the same thing, are they?" Scott said with bitter sarcasm. "And I don't believe that you regret a goddamned thing you cold hearted son of a bitch." 

"Perhaps you see them as different, but they are not. With no more effort than I'm showing now, I could kill everything you hold dear...your Professor, your teammates, even your wife and your son. But I would regret that -- now. Do you understand that?" 

"I _do_ understand that you can and have killed many times -- and I don't think you've changed or are even capable of change. I believe you want Apocalypse dead, but not for the reasons you're giving. I think that somehow Apocalypse is your only competition -- get rid of him and you're free to do whatever the hell you want to do with this planet and the people on it. If Magneto is a problem, you could always wait him out. He's not an immortal like you and Apocalypse. Maybe helping you out is the wrong thing to do. Maybe a stalemate between the two of you is the only thing keeping everyone else alive." 

"Despite your pacifistic tendencies, I do not think you believe that at all. Ask your son if leaving Apocalypse alive for even one more minute is beneficial in any way? 

Sinister opened a tesseract. "Return to your brood with your hate of me intact," he said, a tinge of resignation in his tone. "Be prepared to channel that hate where it will do the most good -- against Apocalypse." 

"If the Professor decides to throw in with you against Apocalypse...one way or another I'm coming for you next." 

"I'm sure that you will not be alone," Sinister answered sullenly. He closed the tesseract around Scott, which would take him back to the mansion. 

* * *

He wanted to clear the air so to speak. Despite his manipulative nature, which he often felt more or less justified in employing, he had a deep and abiding respect for the truth. He could certainly quiet his conscience better than most men, but his inner voice was there nonetheless. And he was well aware of the difference between right and wrong and would never rationalize to himself. That road, especially in an immortal led to insanity. 

But he did have two reasons for going about recruiting his own private army -- one mutant at a time...and they were contradictory. A part of him, which he recognized as nothing more than his own robust ego, required that the X-Men know what he had accomplished -- that he was indeed capable of benevolent even virtuous behavior. He respected the X-Men's founder as well as its members and it pleased him to know that they had been exposed to at least some of his more altruistic acts. Even after almost two centuries, it was important that he retained at least an iota of dignity. 

But he had to admit that it was perhaps a way to extenuate his guilt. Unfortunately, it was imperative to the success of his plan that he also reveal some of the bad as well. He had divulged some the most petty and heinous actions of his long life. Each and everyone of the X-Men had asked why was he telling them this now. A valid question since most of it put him in such a bad light. The fact that some of his revelations earned him the undying hatred of the X-Men -- was the reason. 

There were documented cases of how a 90 lbs. housewife managed to free her child from under a one and a half-ton vehicle because of an andrenaline fed panic. It would be no different when the time would come to fight Apocalypse. It was extremely important that they all tap into hidden reserves of power and reach undreamt levels of psionic energy. Only through their rage and fury would they collectively be able to attain the level of psionic energy his calculations showed would be necessary to execute his clever plan. It made little difference who their rage was directed at. And he had to admit to himself, because of his actions and recent disclosures, the X-Men probably despised him even more than Apocalypse. He took no pride in that dubious accomplishment. 

He retired to the quiet solitude of his laboratory. He required no sleep but settled down in his control chair, suddenly feeling almost the semblance of fatigue. He knew it was nothing more than the weight of his actions concerning Scott. With a complex series of thoughts, with specific and necessary intervals between each, a small tesseract opened at the base of his chair. He reached inside and removed the contents from this artificially created dimensional rift. 

He kept so few personal possessions -- certainly none that he would openly display, although he admitted what a foolish idiosyncrasy it was. What difference would that have made anyway? His private lab was impenetrable, and only he knew about and could access this particular part of tesseract space. Additionally, he was the only person who had ever set foot inside the laboratory, and it was over a century old. 

He did have a few keepsakes...from his _old life_ and a few from _other_ lives he had led. A memento, a souvenir, a simple token, a few photographs. He kept them all in a black leather medical bag --a keepsake itself that was given to him by his parents after he had finished medical school. 

He reached inside the bag and pulled out a small stack of photographs, all specially treated to withstand the passage of time. He flipped through the snapshots, stopping on one in particular. Looking at it, he tried to remember if he was happy when it was taken. His arm was clumsily draped around Scott's shoulder, a genuine smile across Nate's -- _his_ face. He shook his head. A century-old adult masquerading as a child -- and yes, he had been happy. _A very normal photograph -- if they had indeed been two childhood friends,_ he thought. He could see the uncomfortable expression on Scott's face. 

He placed the photograph back into the bag. _Mr. Sinister indeed,_ he thought. 

* * *

**References**:  
[1]X-Men #23  
[2]Classic X-Men #41 BU   
[3]X-Factor minus #1   
[4]Classic X-Men #42 BU   
[5]The Adventures of Cyclops and Phoenix #4   
[6]The Adventures of Cyclops and Phoenix #3 


	14. Chapter 13

Note; _This chapter contains some mature language._

* * *

A TEST OF POWER

**BY DR**

Chapter 13

In all your dwelling places the cities shall be laid waste,  
and the high places shall be desolate;  
that your alters may be laid waste and made desolate,  
and your idols may be broken and cease,  
and your images may be cut down,  
and your works may be abolished.  
Ezekiel 6:6  


_The present_

_Regrets._ He supposed he had more than his fair share, but then again who didn't. Charles never doubted his _humanity_ and all the imperfections that went with it, despite the countless times he had been dubbed a saint or labeled as perfect. He at least made a conscious effort not to dwell on his regrets knowing that it would just be counterproductive. But if there was anyone who had an equal number -- or potentially more, it was undeniably the man sitting across from him -- although Magneto would never admit to it. 

_What an odd pair they were and what a strange relationship they had,_ he thought. Friend, bitter enemy, ally, and rival. For a time, he even led the X-Men in his stead, as impossible as that was to believe now. A different time of day, a different season, a different moon phase; he supposed all of those things or something even less meaningful could have been responsible for the bizarre inconsistencies of how they related to one another. How often had his students asked him about the nature of his friendship with Magneto? In truth he reflected now, his answers had always been wholly inadequate, diversionary. That was because after all this time, he didn't know how to explain it to himself. 

So it didn't come as a _complete_ surprise when Magnus had contacted him and suggested they meet to discuss the current situation with Sinister and Apocalypse. What had surprised him was that Eric had been perfectly agreeable to meet with Charles at the mansion -- _and_ without any of his telepathically resistant accoutrements. Charles recognized the positive nature of the gestures. But Magnus did have one demand -- that they meet alone. 

He had agreed to the meeting and the stipulations that went along with it. Charles counted it as one more regret amongst many. He had been forced to lie to some of his X-Men, as well as take certain _precautions_ to conduct their meeting in secrecy. He knew what he had done was more than simply a white lie. Unfortunately, Charles knew how crucial the meeting was and felt forced to take the necessary steps to see that their summit took place. After all, Scott and most assuredly Logan would never have allowed Charles to meet with Magneto by himself. 

So that was how he found himself in his study with Magneto -- with no one else present. He arranged things very carefully, from the seemingly trivial to key and important elements. The room had been thoroughly swept for any electronic eavesdropping devices with the most advanced Shi'ar technology built for that very purpose. Charles had personally programmed Cerebro to detect and disrupt any telepathic communications other than his own. Erik himself was maintaining a low level EM field that would alert him to the use of any electronic device, which he could disrupt as well. There wasn't a more secure way that Charles could think of to conduct this meeting. 

He didn't know which category the seating arrangement fell into, but he didn't think that sitting at his desk with Magnus seated directly across from him like one of his students, was something that Eric would approve of. He had learned many years ago that these small things seemed to hold considerable importance in Magnus' estimation. So instead, they sat across from one another in two identical chairs, a small coffee table between them -- sipping tea like two old friends. _Two old friends. There it was again,_ Charles thought. It's what they once were and still should be he reflected sadly. _How was it possible that their relationship had gone through -- what it had gone through?_ he thought for perhaps the thousandth time. Were they _both_ insane? Or perhaps Sinister's theory about psionic energy and its effect on the mutant mind had some actual scientific validity. He would have to give Sinister's assertion some serious thought. 

"Don't be so contemplative Charles. Spending time trying to _understand_ how we can possibly work together toward a common goal, considering our history is unquestionably reasonable. But I've given it enough thought for the both of us -- and I'm here," Magnus said matter-of-factly. "Don't waste another second trying to fathom a rational answer." 

"I thought I was the telepath here Eric," Charles said with a bemused expression. 

"You don't have to be a telepath to see what is plainly written on your face. I've known you long enough, and have seen you wrestle with that formidable conscience of yours. Is working with the _sworn_ enemy of you and your dream -- is that what's troubling you?" He shook his head. "I see you haven't lost any of your naiveté Charles," Magnus continued. "History has shown us that alliances of convenience are quite common, even between the worst of enemies. In the end, this will be no different." 

"An alliance of convenience is not quite how I view this," Charles sighed, -- "and I'd somehow hoped you'd feel differently as well. Needless to say, I find many things about our past and present troubling." Charles paused, endeavoring to provide Magnus with the least inflammatory answer, choosing his words carefully. "Working together has always been a fervent hope of mine. I just can't seem to divine a reason why we cannot." 

"Perhaps your prophecy for equality between humans and mutants has always seemed an impossibility and consequently has never appealed to me." 

"I've never claimed to be prophetic but I believe we have the moral obligation to see that prophecy of peaceful coexistence fulfilled." 

Magnus slammed his fist down on the armrest of his chair. "You're infuriating Charles. How many more dead mutant bodies do you need to see? How many more Sentinels must be fabricated -- each new design, each successive generation superior at fulfilling its genocidal programming -- the extermination of all mutants? How many more groups like The Friends of Humanity, or individuals like Bolivar Trask, Bastion, and Ahab, -- how many more murderers must you come across to see that your _Dream_ is a fool's errand?" Magnus practically screamed. 

There was a good ten seconds of silence between them. They just stared at each other with similar looks of disbelief that said -- _how is it possible that after all this time you can't see that I'm right?_

Charles broke the silence. "How Eric -- how can you possibly oppose simply living in peace?" Charles asked, almost as if he were trying for the very last time, pleading for Magnus to understand. 

"Ask the humans that same question, Charles," he said shaking his head. Magnus raised his arm and looked at an imaginary wristwatch. "Only four minutes and I'm receiving a sermon that I could probably recite from memory." 

Charles let out an exasperated sigh. Their conversations always seemed to degrade in the same fashion time and time again. "You know it's not my intention to deliver a sermon. It's never worked in the past," he added almost wryly. "But I think it is important that before we embark on this endeavor we understand each other very clearly." 

"And what am I to understand Charles? Shall we rehash the past, comparing philosophies, values, beliefs -- in pursuit of what? After all the blood that has been spilled, is there any realistic chance that we can resolve our differences? Even though the veritable chasm that divides our viewpoints is miles apart, I can say without any hesitation or doubt that neither of us would disagree on what needs to be done about Apocalypse." 

"Is that true Eric? You've spoken of nothing but mutant superiority. How in any way is that different from Apocalypse's survival of the fittest credo? Victimize the weak, sweep aside those who are unable to defend themselves. _I'm_ shocked that the two of you have never worked together before," Charles said a little more vehemently than he meant. 

"You surprise me Charles. What a vitriolic little speech. I didn't know you were capable of such an affront." Magnus composed himself, quelling his all too familiar temper that surfaced when he and Charles discussed their opposing philosophies. "Apocalypse and I are nothing alike," he said pointedly. "I do not _wish_ for war with humanity, but I'm not foolish enough to think that a war is avoidable. But I'm going to disregard your insult because I know how important it is, maybe more important than it's ever been before that we work together. But let _me_ make one thing abundantly clear -- I am going to kill Apocalypse. There will no half-measures and our goal will not be to reason or to incapacitate him while attempting to explain the error of his ways. I trust that neither you nor any of your pet _doves_ will stop me from ending his life," he said with a sour expression on his face. 

"I agree," Charles answered firmly. "He must be killed." 

Eric's eyebrows rose to the top of his head expressing genuine astonishment. "The world's preeminent telepath -- and pacifist condoning murder? What is the world coming to?" 

"Don't be so surprised Eric. Have you already forgotten that I know quite a bit about Apocalypse -- from Cable himself? This is not a matter of rehabilitation and there is no magic remedy or cure for what I believe Apocalypse is. I know that he represents what the Askani call a nexus point, a critical focal point in the timeline, where everything that matters revolves around whether he lives or dies. In more ways than one, I've _seen_ what befalls this world's population, or what remains of it, if Apocalypse is allowed to live." 

Magnus seemed convinced. "Then we are in agreement -- on this one point at least." 

"While we are being agreeable with one another, for you personally, this isn't about saving the planet but more about your daughter Anya." Magnus was about to interrupt him but Charles stopped him. "Please Eric, I meant no offense," Charles said, his tone softening. "I understand what it is to lose a child, and know deep down what lengths I'd go through to get him...to get David back if it were all possible. I also know you could have lied to me about the reasons for your involvement. Instead, during our initial contact, you chose tell me about Sinister's revelations about certain things in your past, very personal things. That more than anything else was why I agreed to this private meeting. If what Sinister said is true, what was done to you -- to your daughter was unconscionable. I assure you that I, along with all of my X-Men, will do everything in our power to see her safely returned to you." 

An olive branch -- some way to possibly mend the rift between them. No matter how many setbacks, hope always seemed to spring eternal in Charles. If they could get through this, and it was at all possible to miraculously see the return of his daughter -- perhaps this would be the catalyst for their renewed friendship -- and a partnership towards a common and peaceful future. 

At the mention of his daughter's name a minute ago, it didn't escape Charles' notice that a dark storm cloud seemed to settle over Eric's features, and then was quickly gone. Charles had seen that expression or mood before -- it was one of vengeance -- vengeance at all costs, and that scared Charles. But what caught Charles completely off guard was the next few words spoken by Magnus -- and the sincerity in which they were delivered. 

"I haven't yet allowed myself to believe that she might still be alive. I'm -- I'm almost too afraid to hope that Sinister's ludicrous story is true, because I don't know if I could go through it again, and lose her -- and remain sane," Magnus said, the last three words, almost a whisper. 

But Magnus came back to himself, his voice once again strong and confident. It was if he allowed himself a brief moment to be human, and then discarded it as if it never existed. He also chose acknowledge Charles' pledge, but in his in his own way. "I also give you my word of honor that I will put our differences aside and neither I nor any of my Acolytes will do anything that will endanger any of your X-Men. We will be a team and I won't allow any petty rivalries to jeopardize the primary goal of -- killing Apocalypse. If Anya is still alive, I will see her safely returned to me...after Apocalypse is dead." 

Charles was astonished but at the same time saddened. "How incredibly easy it was for us to form an alliance and work together. I just wish it were for something other than the ending of someone else's life." 

Magnus put his teacup down rather noisily. "Must you always spoil everything by being so morose Charles?" Magnus said, seeming truly exasperated. 

Quickly changing his tone and expression, for a moment, Charles could almost see the Eric of old, excited, inquisitive, hungry just for the experience of learning something new. 

"I must admit to being fascinated by what you've told me so far. I'd also like to thank you for sharing the information from both Cyclops and Cable's meeting with Sinister. I don't believe either of them would have been so forthcoming. The connection and rationale Sinister described between the Mutant Massacre and the Legacy Virus -- inconceivable. And what Henry told you concerning Sinister's self-proclaimed historical significance -- incredible, although I have my doubts about his altruistic claims." During their initial conversation about his encounter with Sinister, Magnus conveniently left out the fact that he swore that he'd kill _both_ Apocalypse and Sinister. Charles didn't need to know everything --- and it would only upset him. _Sinister wasn't the only one who could play at being altruistic,_ he thought wryly. 

Magnus continued his cross-examination of Sinister's character, his tone one of distaste. "I've met the man Charles, face to face -- and only once. That's all it took. You know my history as well as anyone. The very first second I saw him, reminded me of the so-called scientists and physicians in the camps. The same cold indifferent arrogance was pervasive in all of them -- just like Sinister. I could see it as plain as day. There was no way to hide it, even in a shapeshifter like Sinister. I don't like him and I most certainly don't trust him," Magnus said bluntly in summation. "I also find it almost impossible to believe that Sinister could be responsible for so much," he said, but a bit of uncertainty had crept into his voice. 

Charles nodded his head in agreement. "I found his claims questionable yet we've been able to verify quite a bit of his contributions to the scientific community, things that have benefited mankind greatly, especially in the field of medicine. We've been putting together bits and pieces of historical records, cross-checking facts, dates. Upon conducting exhaustive background investigations on all the individuals that Sinister claimed to have been, we were able to uncover certain specifics that led us to conclude that Sinister was indeed those people. We've created a report chronicling all that I've said in great detail. You're free to examine it and draw your own conclusions." 

"I would most definitely like to examine everything you've put together. I'd also like to ask -- is Sinister only gathering mutants to fight against Apocalypse?" Magnus asked, a curious expression on his face. 

"Yes he is Eric," Charles answered, pleased by Magnus question. Because of their different philosophies, he sometimes forgot what a keen and perceptive mind Eric had. "I've taken the time to contact some of the non-mutant teams such as the Avengers and the Fantastic Four, as well as others. As far as I've been able to tell, Sinister has only contacted mutants." 

"It seems if Sinister was only interested in killing Apocalypse, any one of the organizations you'd just mentioned would be invaluable in accomplishing that goal. What do you make of that Charles?" 

I'm not sure yet, but I believe it is of some significance," Charles replied. 

"There are some other things that I find somewhat -- dubious. For instance, don't you find it strange that he came to ask me for help but not you? Perhaps he's afraid to meet with you because of how powerful a telepath you are and you might be able to discern his true intentions. I know he's met with Cable, but he had quite a bit to do with his creation, and possibly designed some failsafe to prevent Cable from ever being able to read him." 

Charles nodded his head. "It is something I've been pondering since these encounters with Sinister began." Charles had no idea why Sinister had contacted Magneto of all people to help him. As far as he knew, Magnus was telling the truth and he and Sinister had never even met before. For that matter, why he had contacted any of his X-Men and revealed what he had about his own past as well as his connection to them was a complete mystery. Perhaps there was a grain of truth and that he truly needed their help in order to destroy Apocalypse. And certainly contacting him directly knowing the influence he had over his students would have been the more prudent and expedient way for Sinister to achieve his goals. Yet Sinister had chosen not to do that. But Charles thought that his X-Men, Magneto, and anyone else Sinister might have recruited were meant to be some form of distraction, most likely decoys. Charles was no fool and had no intention of providing Sinister canon fodder for Apocalypse's amusement. Eventually, Sinister would have to present his coordinated plan to fight Apocalypse -- and Charles knew that Sinister would have to come to him if he truly wanted the others to agree to help him. Charles would have his say then -- as well as a plan of his own. 

"I don't think I will be able to read his mind," Charles said in answer to Magnus' assertion about why Sinister had not met with Charles. 

"Why not?" Magnus asked. 

Charles leaned back into his chair, a reflective expression on his face. "It was many years ago, when I'd won a scholarship to Oxford. I wasn't the recalcitrant narrow-minded individual you probably believe I am today. I was young, impressionable, eager to learn, enthusiastic to find some direction -- a noble cause to champion." 

"Hard to believe," Magnus commented dryly. 

"Really?" Charles answered with an equal measure of sarcasm. "If I recall, you and I weren't very different." 

"The folly of youth. I grew up Charles. But let's not go over that ground once _again_. So you were saying that you were a freshman at Oxford -- if I recall correctly, that's where you met Moira," Magnus added with no emotion, despite his feelings about her. 

"Yes I was," Charles remembered with such fondness and couldn't help the emotions from reaching his face. "We met during a tutorial given by renowned geneticist. His work was groundbreaking and revolutionary. Listening to him was like emerging from a dimly lit room into the brilliance of the noonday sun.(1) His lectures were exhilarating and both Moira and I may never have devoted ourselves to the study of genetics if it were not for this Professor. But what I found most intriguing was the fact that I could not read his thoughts. I've always suspected but was never sure. After all that I've learned recently, I am almost positive it was Sinister. 

"Who else could it have been?" Magnus said brusquely, seeming annoyed. "So what?" he continued. "He recognized your mutant potential, your intellect, and sought to cultivate both. Who knows what his intentions were?" 

"I think his intentions were completely benign," Charles replied. Magnus gave him a look of complete skepticism -- or that he was a fool. It was a look that he was all too familiar with. 

Charles simply shrugged knowing that it would be difficult to convince Eric of what he was about say. "You would have had to attend one of his lectures and felt the passion in which he delivered the subject matter, to understand my meaning. He had a genuine love for teaching and a true devotion to the students. I can also say without any reservation that he was the finest professor I ever had. And he didn't just instruct the class in the sciences, but an amazing amalgamation of geopolitics, ethics, and philosophy -- and somehow managed to relate it all to genetics." 

"It sounds simply exhilarating," Magnus replied disdainfully. "A gifted performer and shapeshifter, with years to perfect his craft of masquerading as different people -- in order to get whatever he desired," Magnus offered up as a simplistic explanation. 

"Perhaps. But I can't deny that it was his class that inspired me to devote myself to the field of genetics. In a way, I almost feel I owe him something," Charles replied almost wistfully. 

"Why don't you let me pay your debt for you -- in my own way?" Magnus' expression changed suddenly. "We are no longer alone." 

"I know," Charles answered, exhaling sharply. "Please come in Logan." 

Wolverine stepped through the door with a very unpleasant expression on his face. 

"Yer playing a dangerous game Chuck...screwing with our heads like that," Logan said with a menacing tone in his voice. 

"It isn't something I'm proud of Logan. I'm not trying to defend what I did," he quickly added, trying to diffuse Logan's anger, "but I simply placed the desire for you to go to Harry's tonight, nothing more. I could have placed any number of more _convincing_ thoughts into your mind but did not -- including stopping you the minute I sensed you on the school grounds -- but again decided not to. I didn't want to _'screw'_ with your minds as you put it, only distract you for a short time. I just thought it would be the safest course of action -- for everyone. But you must believe me when I say I would have told you and the rest of the X-Men everything that I did, soon after Magnus was safely away. I'm truly sorry." 

"Please just perform some act of contrition or whatever it is you X-Men do to apologize, but spare me this inane banter about regret or acts of forgiveness," Magnus interjected, his tone one of impatience. 

_Snict_ -- Wolverine extended a single claw. "Maybe I'd perform my own brand of apology. It's a little messy, but ya can't argue with the results," Logan said with an evil smile. 

"Please, this is exactly what I wanted to avoid," Charles looked at both of them earnestly, hoping that things wouldn't escalate. 

"You'd find yourself outside the mansion impaled on the surrounding wrought iron gate before you moved another inch towards me -- to deliver your _apology_ little man," Magneto answered mockingly. 

"Perhaps both of you need to be reminded of how powerful a telepath I am," Charles said in such a commanding tone that both Magnus and Logan's attention were immediately and solely on him. "I will brook absolutely no violence between the two of you. Am I clear? He looked at them both, and in the intensity of his gaze they could see why he was reputed to have the most powerful mutant mind on the planet. 

He retracted the deadly adamantium blade and reached into his shirt pocket. The smell of cigar smoke filled up the room as Logan lit up a stogie and leaned up against the closed door, taking up a relaxed posture. "Alright Chuck, if you're getting so excited that yer gonna resort to threats, I guess this must be pretty important. But I'm gonna stay Bub," Logan said punctuating his words with a fierce stare at Magneto. "This is a free country -- we ain't in Genosha," Logan said, still staring at Magnus. 

"What an astute political mind you have Logan. I never thought you left the kennel all that often." 

"I get out often enough, Bub. Enough to know I ain't gonna sit here and trade bullshit barbs when somethin' needs to be done about both Sinister and Apocalypse. I know the X-Men can't take down either one by themselves, so we're gonna need help -- even if it means hookin' up with the likes of you." 

"Well, thank you for the vote of confidence," Magneto said dryly. "As for me," Magnus looked back to Charles, "I don't see myself fighting with -- and certainly not _for_ Sinister. He is obviously gathering a group to fight for him -- because he cannot fight for himself and is a coward. I'm neither a mercenary or a patsy." 

"Man ain't no coward," Logan said as if Magneto's comment was stupid. 

Magnus looked back at Logan, annoyed by the interruption. "And how would you know that?" Magnus answered, his tone already dismissing Logan's reply before he even said it. 

Logan tapped the end of his nose. 

"Please," Magnus snapped back, irritated at what he perceived as Logan's stupidity. "He's a consummate shapeshifter. I'm sure he could mask the smell of fear if he so chose." 

"Maybe, but that ain't the only thing Einstein. I guess most folks like to think we're above the animals, especially genetically elite asses like you -- but we ain't. We all got animal in'us -- human, mutant, ain't no difference." 

"Are you going to lecture us on _your_ theory of evolution, or are you going to make a point?" Magnus asked, his irritation at having to listen to Logan clear in his voice. 

"Keep yer bucket on. Everybody knows what the law of the jungle is. Even when you were a kid, everyone knew about sandbox rules. One kid always ruled the playground -- even if he was a bully, lots a kids still followed him around. Same thing in your teens, or in the business world, or in a war. Some guy's lead and some guy's follow; different shades of the same thing. It's not something you have to talk about, you just know. When we get older, you tend to get less sensitive to things like that, I guess you can call it gettin' civilized, but you still feel it -- just not as strongly. People like me, who are closer to their animal side," Logan said with a beastly smile in Magnus' direction," never lose it. Matter of fact, I can feel it all the time." 

"So what are you trying to say," Magnus asked, "because you bay at the moon at night, you can tell that Sinister is not a coward?" 

Logan chuckled. "Not a bad explanation, Bub." Instead of a clever retort, Logan just asked Magneto a question. "You know in nature about an alpha male or female, top dog?" 

"A hierarchy or pecking order in pack animals? Magnus answered wearily. 

"Yup. Ain't no different in us," Logan said pointing to himself. "You an' Chuck, you're alpha's -- different kinds, but still alpha's." 

"And Sinister?" Charles asked. 

"Way, way up there on the alpha scale. He's as far away from being a coward as you are," he said looking directly at Magneto, "as you an' I bein' friends. 

"Thank God for some things," Magnus answered sardonically. "And what does your keen sense tell you about Apocalypse?" he asked. 

"Well -- yer gonna need a whole new scale for ol' purple lips. He's the real deal Bub, nobody I come across is in his league. He does the scarin' and he ain't scared of nothin', simple as that. So I suggest you and Chuck use those big brains you got and get to plannin' something -- and it better be good. I don't think either side is gonna take prisoners, and a lot of people are gonna get hurt -- or worse." 

Magnus realized he had nothing further to say to Logan, because for once, he was in complete agreement with him. 

* * *

_Interlude 1 - Plainview, N.Y._

The Plainview Nursing Home had been in existence for over eighty-five years. It had possibly the largest staff per patient ratio in the country, while the institution itself was both modern and spacious. The grounds were spread over one hundred acres -- trees, flowers, and an assortment of ponds dotted the landscape. It was a family owned facility that took great pride in providing clean and adequate care for the elderly. It was rare in this day and age to find a nursing home that was not owned and run by a large parent corporation and whose concern was only with the bottom line -- and nothing else. The employees were thoroughly screened and were chosen for traits like compassion, attention to detail, and extreme patience. 

None of these things mattered to Aron. Perhaps they would have if he had been mistreated. But the sympathetic and special care he received at the nursing home was all that he knew -- and he had been human for about a year. 

It had been an intolerable year for Aron. Humiliating beyond description. He _had_ been a cosmic being of almost immeasurable might, a member of an ancient and powerful race extraterrestrials -- a _Watcher_. But unlike every other member of his race, he had forsworn his sacred oath to passively observe and never interfere with the affairs of other races. Unlike his dispassionate brethren, Aron delighted in the pursuit of personal power and gain, sacrificing anything and anyone who got in his way. He received particular pleasure in killing human beings, manipulating those in power in the hopes of destroying everyone on the planet. But as much as it pained him to admit it, he discovered that there were things that he could learn from this race of primates. _The truth of the matter was that he would not be alive, albeit in the body of a pathetic human, if it were not for them,_ he thought distastefully. More accurately, he would not be alive if he had been unable to learn certain things from -- _mutants_. 

Much to his surprise, Aron discovered that there were a small number of mutated humans born with an _X-factor_ gene. Among this group, there was an even smaller minority who demonstrated a large variety of incredible abilities. It was very unusual that in so young a race, this evolutionary anomaly would place such vast powers in the hands of these simple mortals. Despite the fact that Aron had been dubbed a _rogue Watcher,_ by using his race's time honored method of observation, he confirmed that it was true -- and found a way to exploit the mutants for his own purposes. Aron was able to identify a handful of mutants who could actually transfer their life essence -- everything they were into another living body. When Aron had first stumbled across this power in certain mutants, he immediately recognized that this ability could be extremely useful to him personally -- and in a variety of ways. He immediately set out and gathered as many mutants who exhibited this power as he could find, experimenting on them in order to discover the basis of this ability. All of them were killed in the process, but in the end, utilizing his vast cosmic powers, Aron was able to mimic this ability himself -- although imperfectly. 

It was at that time, approximately a year ago when Uatu himself had subdued Aron after discovering his barbaric conduct and repeated interference with the affairs of mankind. Uatu decided that it was his moral obligation to deliver Aron to the other Watchers for judgment. As fortune would have it, Uatu's entire race had been called away on mission of cosmic urgency.(2) For the time being, the magnitude of their plight overshadowed even the severity of Aron's crime. When Aron had learned what his race had been summoned about -- that was when he had immediately set in motion radical plans to insure his survival. 

Aron had discovered that somehow his inoffensive race, or more accurately -- _The One,_ had come under the scrutiny of the Celestials. The One was a unique Watcher of extraordinary importance, a giant amongst a race of giants, and served as the sole repository of all their knowledge -- all of their observations gathered over countless millennia. But in ways that weren't readily apparent to the Watchers themselves, The One somehow served as the foundation or the heart of consciousness for the entire race. 

The race of Watchers and the race of Celestials had been in conflict in every plane of existence for countless millennia. Their war if it could even be called that, was more of a conflict of philosophies than a contest of arms or might. But recently the Celestials had escalated their conflict and deemed that The One was somehow a threat to the cosmic balance -- and had to be destroyed. 

Aron concluded that the fall of The One would signal the complete destruction of his entire race. In order not to suffer that same fate, Aron brilliantly devised a means to convert the entire Earth solar system into his own private pocket universe. Although countless living beings would have lost their lives in the process, Aron cared little and was committed to his escape. But Uatu, with the help of the Fantastic Four, thwarted his plans once again. 

As Aron had predicted, the Celestials destroyed The One but in the process the Celestial executioner, Exitar, had been destroyed as well. Somehow, this restored the equilibrium of the universe and the cosmic scales were once again balanced. But Aron could not know that the Watchers would make a collective decision to begin the long process of regenerating The One -- to once again store all of their collective knowledge into a living receptacle. Just as the Celestials would decide to regenerate Exitar for their own mysterious purposes. But what was most shocking of all was that Uatu had decided to sacrifice Aron -- by converting him to living energy, to serve as the core of the new One. (3) 

But at the last possible moment Aron had seen his fate, and used his recently acquired ability to transfer his life essence into the body of another. It would have been foolhardy to attempt to transfer himself into another Watcher. Any Watcher would have been able to stop him -- his ability was just too new and untested. In addition, he consciously decided to separate only a small part of himself, to hopefully escape unnoticed by Uatu and the rest of the Watchers. This left him depleted and without just about all of his cosmic powers. 

All these necessities, coupled with his rush to escape his fate, had forced Aron to throw his quintessence -- his core, into the most convenient receptacle that could house him. He had also discovered that his newly acquired ability was imperfect. He couldn't just wrest control of any body, but only a matching energy matrix, although he was still unsure of the scientific details. But what he did know was that if he attempted to assume a body that did not match his living energy patterns perfectly, he would simply remain in his original body. It was very similar to puzzle pieces fitting together, or a key fitting into a lock -- if you did not have the correct key, you could not open or close the lock. Aron hadn't yet learned to manipulate the pieces so they would fit together -- yet. That was how he found himself in this worthless -- infirm body. It was most certainly not by choice. But it had saved his life and ever so slowly during his convalescence, he had gathered more power, gradually restoring himself to his past glory and preeminence. Well, he was nowhere near that level, but in time. In addition, he believed he had discovered a way to possess and control any human or mutant being -- he just needed a little more time to recoup some of his power. Soon he would leave this decrepit shell and seize the body of a powerful mutant, and then Uatu himself. 

He positioned his wheelchair so that his entire body would bask in the sunlight that streamed through the large glass panes of the common room. A blanket that had been covering his legs fell to the floor. Before he could reach for it himself, one of the staff immediately picked it up and placed it gently back on his legs. Aron roughly pulled the blanket further up his waist, scowling at the young man. The man who was about twenty-five years of age, just smiled and took no offense. Aron's reputation was well known by the staff, but they always tried to make him feel comfortable and wanted. 

"I hope I didn't startle you Mr. Guerin," the attendant said politely. 

"How could a clumsy oaf like yourself ever startle me?" Aron snapped at him. 

"OK Mr. Guerin, I'll let you get back to what you were doing," he said with a small smile, and went to see who else he could help that might be more appreciative. 

He hated the humans that fawned over him. He hated how he had to rely on them to feed and bath him, or for just about anything he needed to survive. His withered and depleted body was nothing more than a prison -- an ugly fleshly repository for his greatness. He refused to converse with either his fellow residents or the staff. They were beneath him and had he possessed even a vestige of his cosmic might, he would have killed them for just the presumption that they were allowed to address him. 

There was one attendant, a young nurse whom he was somehow able to tolerate. Her name was Alexandra. She possessed a respectable brain as well as manners that Aron was capable of enduring, and much to his surprise he actually looked forward to her visits. While she went about her duties, she would engage him in conversation, but more importantly, unlike most of the babbling apes he had been exposed to, she was content to just listen. Aron found himself speaking to her about subjects that would certainly label him as either delusional or senile, but humans seemed to expect this of the elder members of their society so his comments were viewed as harmless. Although he knew that it was probably unwise to speak of the _fantastic_ topics he sometimes decided to bring up, he just needed a way to pass the time before he could return to his former station and powers. She would listen to him intently and sometimes even ask intelligent questions no matter how outlandish his claims must have seemed to a simple human. He even considered letting her live after he regained his cosmic power. 

Uatu would pay dearly for every shame and disgrace he had suffered in this place. He would kill Uatu and every other member of his race -- all the humans as well. His mood lightened with the thoughts of the slaughter he would visit upon both races. Perhaps he would spare Alexandra -- one life out of billions didn't seem like that much of an inconvenience. 

* * *

_New Mexico, 100 miles northwest of Los Alamos - The Johnson Federal Nuclear Waste and Storage Complex_

Like many Government facilities, it was necessary to go through at two or three levels of camouflage to uncover what its true purpose was. About twenty years ago, the abandoned salt mine was annexed by the U.S Government to store nuclear waste material deep under the Earth's surface. While the mine was still used for this purpose, shortly after the facility became active, a portion of the mine was set aside and a state of the art prison complex was secretly fabricated. 

Many years ago, as part of what was thought to be a full-proof security system, a team of engineers and planners had decided to build a maze of randomly dug access tunnels. Some of these tunnels led to the surface miles away from the nuclear storage caverns, others led to dead ends deep into the earth. This made it an ideal way to clandestinely get prisoners to the facility ensuring that none of the mineworkers saw anything out of the ordinary. It was specifically built to house the most heinous of criminals and special arrangements were always required to transport them to their _permanent_ home. The list of inmates included super-powered villains, the most powerful mutants, cybernetic organisms, even aliens. The mildest of these individuals refused to conform to societies mores and laws and would kill with the least provocation. The worst -- would completely overturn society, exterminate entire populations -- commit genocide. They were all kept in solitary confinement and in separate parts of the facility. They exercised, ate, and slept completely alone. Contact with the outside world was forbidden. The prisoners themselves were completely ignorant of other inmates. For all they could tell, aside from the guards, they had the entire facility to themselves. 

Only one human being was incarcerated in this facility. He had no special powers, posed no special threat to any of the guards, and in no way could he ever have any chance of escaping from this prison. Yet it was this human being that Apocalypse was here to see. 

William Stryker considered himself a very mindful and observant person. Although he had been dozing, he was a very light sleeper and had awoken instantly. There was practically no delay as all his senses came _on line_ and he became fully cognizant of his surroundings. This talent had always served him well during his military career and probably had saved his life on more than one occasion. But it had not been a loud or even a small sound that had awoken him -- it had been the complete lack of noise that alerted him that something was --- different. 

He sat up slowly and gently placed his bible on the night table that was beside his bed. The small nightlight was the only source of illumination in his cell and cast large exaggerated shadows across the ceiling. But Reverend Stryker was a very composed and self-assured individual, his confidence in his faith and God were unshakable. Even though an eerie sense of dread had descended about the cell, with unnatural calm he still took time to note the passage that he had been reading before he had fallen asleep. Revelations 1:18 _I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death._ A fitting passage that he could always draw comfort from in that in many ways, those few words described his life. 

He was under both electronic and actual physical surveillance at all times. A guard post was positioned directly across from his prison cell. Two guards were always stationed within ten feet of the cell's entrance. He looked out and saw that both of them were slumped over their desk -- unmistakably dead. At a glance, Stryker could tell that their necks had been broken. A very large man was standing behind the guards, a strange smile on his face. He was plainly dressed and other than his size, was quite unremarkable. Stryker had never seen him before -- in the prison or at any other time in his life. His memory for people and places was flawless. No doubt he was responsible for the guard's demise. 

_"Master Sergeant William Stryker, U.S. Army Rangers."_The man's incredibly deep voice echoed in the underground room that contained his cell. Stryker was immediately struck by how forceful and commanding the stranger's tone and presence were. 

The man stepped around the desk and stood directly in front of his cell. Stryker could feel an aura of power about him, and suddenly felt comforted that there was a barrier of energy between the two of them. Although he got the impression that if the stranger wanted to, he could smash his way through it and into his cell with no effort at all. 

"Oh, I apologize for using your former appellation. I sometimes have the tendency to live in the past -- both recent and ancient I'm afraid. I had forgotten -- you had a spiritual awakening of sorts, a metamorphosis. But your change was not even remotely similar to the gentle and protracted transformation of the caterpillar to the graceful butterfly that even children are familiar with," he laughed to himself. "Your personal evolution was much more abrupt and not nearly as attractive I'm afraid. You had what I believe is referred to as a calling." 

Stryker didn't comment and was completely at a loss for what was going on. He just stood there with a grim expression on his face and simply waited to see what happened next. 

"I see that I've insulted you. You must prefer the title of Reverend. Is that your current title...or after all that has transpired, have you given up your vocation, lost your faith in God and prefer no title at all?" 

Stryker finally decided to speak even though he knew that the stranger had been goading -- choosing to insult his beliefs as a catalyst. "My faith has never wavered, and will never diminish no matter how much time I spend in this prison. But I don't care what you call me, nor do I have any desire to discuss my faith with a complete stranger." 

"If I could somehow let you see over countless years how many people have claimed to know the mind of God and how may wars and deaths could be attributed to that outrageous presumption." Apocalypse looked at Stryker and could see that his words were wasted. There was nothing he could say that would affect Stryker's views -- and was pleased. 

"I must admit to being slightly disappointed. Here I was hoping that you could impart some precious pearl of wisdom to this spiritually poor soul -- some fire and brimstone passage from one of your more passionate sermons. Perhaps a favorite homily that turned the misguided to pious and devout followers? 

"Are you a human or are you a mutant?" Stryker asked abruptly. 

Apocalypse laughed. "What possible difference could that make?" He leaned back on the desk, ignoring the dead guards, resting a portion of his weight on its edge. A deep groan of protest issued from the heavy oak desk. 

"All the difference in the world," Stryker answered through his teeth, some emotion finally creeping into his voice. 

"None regarding your freedom," Apocalypse replied, implying that the offer of freedom was his to grant -- or just as easily withdraw. 

"I can see that my freedom," he said pointing to the dead guard," was no easy thing to come by. This is a first rate security facility with well trained and well armed individuals. You appear to be alone, unarmed and yet, don't have a scratch on you. Either you're a very luck fellow or a powerful mutant, which would make this possible." 

Apocalypse laughed. "Humans are just as proficient at killing as mutants are and have been doing it for much longer -- in most cases that is," he added with a strange smile. "But I understand that this," he pointed to the dead guards, "must seem rather odd and my appearance here is something of a surprise. I just find your life to be of particular interest to someone with -- how shall I say -- someone with my unique perspective. I can't decide if the road you've chosen to travel is one of revenge or one of redemption. Although I think you've lost the ability to distinguish between the two." 

Perplexed, Stryker couldn't decide if this man's comments were meant to be insightful, passing along some subtle message or derisive. "You have a very mocking tone stranger. I hope you feel the risk is worth eternal damnation." 

"I'm hardly a stranger Reverend -- no not at all. You may not know me personally, but I assure you I've always been a friend. You could consider me your personal benefactor. In its early days, your ministry was quite poor, your resources extremely meager. For more than a quarter of a century, you worked very hard to gain followers, establish financial backing, and used any and all means to gain information. On all those fronts, I anonymously and generously contributed to your cause." 

Stryker remained virtually expressionless but could not keep the skepticism from reaching his eyes. "And I'm supposed to accept this all on -- faith?" 

Apocalypse smiled broadly. "Touché Reverend." A look of concentration crossed Apocalypse's very human looking face. "How can I most easily and effectively prove my point? After all, it was some time ago. Well, many of your devotees -- you named them _Purifiers,_ were sent by me. One in particular, Robert Miller, was extremely adept at getting FBI files --- Fred Ducan's files. Those files were the basis of your holy campaign against Xavier, the X-Men, and mutants in general," Apocalypse offered up as evidence for his support of Stryker's cause. 

"That information, although never made public, could have been obtained through any number of channels. It tells me nothing." 

The hum of the energy field that kept Stryker prisoner suddenly went silent. He also could no longer see the faint shimmering that was always present when the energy field was in place. 

"Perhaps your freedom will tell you all you need to know." 

He made no move. He was reluctant to step out of his prison cell. He didn't know if it was fear of the stranger or something else entirely. Either way, he suddenly felt very uneasy and could not bring himself to step closer to his supposed liberator. 

"Come, come now Reverend -- the monitoring devices have been rendered inoperative. There will be no guards to witness or prevent your escape. Like many prisoners, have you become comfortable with your surroundings and are now fearful of the outside world -- afraid to leave the familiarity and safety of its walls?" 

"What will I owe you for my freedom?" Stryker asked, ignoring the intended slight. 

"You will owe me nothing. But you will do what I wish by simply being true to your own nature." 

Stryker snorted. "And I suppose you know what my true nature is?" Stryker said scornfully. 

"Oh you'd be quite surprised about what I know...particularly about _human_ nature. You for instance like to live life without any of the restraints of civilization, unfettered, in complete command of others, like a man of power should be able to. That is what I offer you now -- to return to your former station. Free to spread your brand of -- madness." 

Again the stranger smiled broadly. Stryker saw a brand of madness or insanity that he didn't know existed -- and that chilled him to the bone. But he wouldn't lie to himself -- he wanted to be free of this sterile ungodly place...at just about any cost. Perhaps God once again needed him to do His work. Who was he to question the tools and people God would use to do His will. "Suppose I believe you're capable of this -- this next to impossible feat. What did I do to deserve..?" Stryker stopped himself, changing his intended question, his voice taking on a more cynical tone. "How does this help you in any way?" 

"A fair question. You help to foment the war that I desire. You wish to exterminate the mutants you despise, crush what you deem a weak and impoverished human society -- if you are able, strong enough, I support your cause. I simply invite you to indulge in all of your prejudices. I will do everything possible to pander to your narrow-minded bigotry and intolerance. After all, anyone who would murder his own wife and child, that kind of conviction is to be admired, that kind of religious fervor to a cause is so rare and precious an attribute." 

Stryker's eyes narrowed slightly, almost imperceptibly -- but other than that, there was no outward sign that Apocalypse's comment had any effect at all. 

"Impressive. Neither the facade of denial nor an inquiry on how I know what only you yourself know to be true." Apocalypse shook his head and his expression seemed to acknowledge some wondrous accomplishment. "Truly an admirable example of self-control. I must commend you on such a splendid illustration of self-discipline considering how heinous and personal your actions were with your wife and child. 

Apocalypse waited a moment for some recognition of his comments. "Granted you have no reason to confide in me -- but not even a flicker of surprise about a secret you've kept buried all these years?" he simply asked. 

"Are trying to illicit a confession?" his voice tinged with both anger and suspicion. "Is that what this is all about? I've been in this prison for what seems like forever. The _authorities_ will never grant me my freedom. What possible difference could it make _if_ I killed _them_, or my mother and my father, or anyone else for that matter? I was never tried but always knew that I was serving a life sentence." 

Apocalypse shrugged. "Perhaps I was simply testing your mettle...or I'm as evil as you and wanted nothing more than to torture you with the knowledge that someone else knows what a coward you are," Apocalypse said with a smile that seemed to support his claims of malevolence. 

"You claimed to be a generous contributor to my cause. I've had better _friends_ than you." he said with a cynical edge in his voice. 

Apocalypse laughed. "No doubt, but you seemed to want to know that my knowledge and interest in you was genuine. Perhaps I could have chosen a more suitable way of showing this. Although, I've been told that subtlety was never my strong suit. So let me say this -- you've killed many people _Reverend_. Some by your own hand, others indirectly, with orders from you. Hardly the way one would expect any religious leader should conduct themselves." Apocalypse's tone was one of mild or false admonishment. 

Instead of shame there was only a gleam of pride in his eyes. "I did what I had to do...what God had put me on this earth to do," Stryker said with clear and utter conviction. 

"Did he indeed? Did he place you at that nuclear facility at the start of your military career? You're well versed in the effects of radiation and its correlation to mutation. Don't delude yourself. The mutated seed came from _you,_ and you alone Reverend, not your wife. Your exposure to radiation ensured that. It was _you_ again that impregnated your wife with that _defective_ gene, unless you're proposing infidelity or something more outlandish like an immaculate conception." Apocalypse said with a sarcastic tone and smile. "I hate to think your wife, heaven forbid, the woman who shared your bed for all those years was cavorting with mutants." 

There was murder in William Stryker's eyes, an aura of rage had formed around him, but he still didn't move and looked on silently. 

"Was it God's hand who slew your child the minute it took its first breath...was the bloodied knife in God's hand or your own?(4) Perhaps it was a test -- just like Abraham was asked to slay his own son as the ultimate method to determine his loyalty. He passed his test -- and I assume you did as well. How positively Biblical." Apocalypse laughed, pleased with his own wit. 

"Even the Devil can quote scripture," Styrker said, his voice shaking for the first time. 

Apocalypse continued, his voice was louder, deeper, inescapable, and to William Stryker, seemed to come from everywhere all at once. "Was it God's hand who denied your wife Marcy from holding her first and only child -- and in the next second snapped her neck? Then in a fit of despair over your actions, you decided to take your own life. How tragic for someone with your devout beliefs -- to commit one of the most heinous of sins against the deity you claim to worship," Apocalypse said gravely. "But God must have forgiven you and once again intervened on your behalf, blowing you free of the very car you set aflame. Your wife and child were burned beyond recognition -- God covered up your crimes. He wouldn't want one of his most pious followers to suffer in prison when after all, you were just doing his work," Apocalypse said, nodding his head in mock understanding. 

For a moment, it appeared that Stryker, filled with rage, was about to launch himself at Apocalypse. Instead, his legs went out from under him and he collapsed to his knees. He buried his face into both his hands and began to sob. His body shook uncontrollably as a catharsis of emotions buried for years poured out in a torrent of both self-pity and grief. 

"I wonder if you believe in a vengeful God or a merciful God? For your sake Reverend, you should dearly hope and pray for the latter. 

Apocalypse turned his back to Stryker and began to walk away, but stopped momentarily, still facing away. "You're free to go Reverend -- as free as any man can be with your personal history." 

* * *

**References**:  
[1]Uncanny X-Men #389   
[2]Fantastic Four #399   
[3]Fantastic Four #400   
[4]God Loves, Man Kills 


	15. Chapter 14

A TEST OF POWER

**BY DR**

Chapter 14

_ _

Power never takes a back step  
_- only in the face of more power_

**Malcolm X**  
_1965_

_The present_

Murderers, assassins, cutthroats, and even a homicidal maniac - the list of crimes perpetrated by the individuals in this room would fill up a respectably sized hard drive. Interpol, Shield, Governments both domestic and foreign would give up a year's budget to arrest just a small percentage of them. Despite their anti-social natures, vicious dispositions, and predilection for extreme violence, the spacious and lavishously equipped living quarters their _magnanimous_ employer provided, accomodated them all quite comfortably.

The common room was approximately fifty-thousand square feet. It served as a dining hall, recreation room, and general meeting place. It contained a full sized gym, training area, a billiards table, and even an olympic sized pool. Over a dozen televisions were scattered about the room where a library of DVDs as well as an assortment of video games could be used to fill the time between assignments. A fully stocked bar and kitchen were also part of this room which catered to those with either exotic or more traditional tastes. Another level contained individual sleeping quarters, which also were equipped with televisions, computers, and each had private bathrooms with both showers and jacuzzis. More importantly it served as a safe haven, one that could only be reached by Sinister's tesseracts, and would only allow passage to the select people in his employ. This was the ultimate perk for career criminals who needed to escape the authorities at a seconds notice and ultimately could never be reached or apprehended by those very same people. In a certain fashion, Sinister was quite generous to those people who _chose_ to work for him. In other ways...

Similar to a Friday night party at a frat house, Marauders socialized with Nasty Boys like fraternal brothers and sorority sisters. The communal setting was relatively amicable as well as normal considering the nature and makeup of the people present. Individuals who callously murdered and maimed the Morlocks -some of them children and all fellow mutants, were among this group.

Riptide and Ruckus were playing a high stakes game of nineball, hundred dollar bills were strewn all over the billiards table. Slab and Blockbuster were lifting weights, each trying to outdo the other with enormous feats of strength. Hairbag was trying to cozy up to Vertigo, his razor sharp fangs, claws, bushy hair, and smell, did not quite work in his favor. To the shapely mutant, he reminded her of an ugly junkyard dog and she rebuffed him once again.This wasn't the first - and it wouldn't be the last time she had to discourage his advances. Sabertooth, Gorgeous George, and Ruckus, were seated at the bar drinking beer. The remainder of both teams were eating and talking amongst themselves at a long dining table right beside the bar.

Sabertooth downed the entire mug of beer in a single swig. He belched loudly and wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. Heappeared to behaving a conversation with Gorgeous George and Ruckus but in reality was addressing everyone in the room. "This next gig, ain't no one comin' out alive...well none of us at least," Sabertooth said, loud enough to be heard by almost every person in the room.

Sabertooth was probably the only Marauder who never expressed any reluctance about any of the assignments they were given, and certainly not on any moral basis. As a matter of fact, it was usually the complete opposite. Bloodthirsty and sadistic, he was always anxious to go on a killing spree even when the mission didn't call for it. His tone in this particular case was actually bordering on sounding as if he was worried. Sabertooth's uncharacteristic tone brought an abrupt halt to the testosterone laden contest between Slab and Blockbuster. Great steel plates suddenly came crashing to the ground -the rubber-like floor only partially masking the sound as the two huge men walked over to the bar to hear what Creed had to say.

"Big fucking deal," Harpoon answered. "We're nothing more than hired muscle, told what to do." The dour faced Inuit spit the salmon bones out onto his plate, not a spec of meat remained on the fish carcass. He tore a piece of bread from an oversized loaf and walked over to the tin where the fish had been cooked. He dipped his piece of bread soaking up as much of the leftover marinade as it could hold. He bit into the bread, a respectable amount of juice and most probably saliva ran down his chin. He submerged the bread once again with no consideration given to any of the others who might like to sample the tasty liquid. "Why is this different than any other time?"

"Why is this different than every other time?" Sabertooth snarled in a mocking tone. "I'll tell you why you stupid fucking Eskimo - every other time, we were in the driver's seat - or at least had a chance. Six months, Sinister pulls this plan out of his ass - has us doing all these special training sessions - says we need to learn new stuff because we're gonna fight Apocalypse. Said it like it was some kind of honor. We haven't been able - or haven't been allowed to leave here for half a fuckin' year. What kind'a bullshit is that?"

"So why don't you say what you mean, Creed?" Scalphunter was using an oversized knife as a toothpick to pick pieces of meat from between his teeth. He pushed his plate away and threw a napkin over the remains of the bloody steak. He leaned back and balanced himself on the rear two legs of his chair. "If I'm hearin' you correctly, you say'in you wanna go against the boss?" Scalphunter asked, a mocking and skeptical tone underscoring his words.

"What I'm say'in asshole, is that I think Sinister is usin' us as a distraction, nothin' more. We ain't meant to steal nothin', kill nobody, or win nothin'" Creed shrugged and shook his head as if he regreted the energy he had used to speak. "I don't know why I'm saying anything, you dumb asses want put your necks out to be cut, fuck it. And watch your mouth with me Scalp, unless you wanna end up like that meat on yer plate," Creed answered.

Scalphunter just smiled, nonplussed, and pulled a large cruel looking gun from a holster and began polishing the barrel in answer to Creed's threat.

"So that's why the Boss wants us extra sharp, that's why all the special training," Blockbuster offered up earnestly as an explanation that he obviously believed.

Creed shook his head in disgust. "What a shit for brains. With all his big fucking smarts, fancy gizmos, and his own mutant powers - or whatever the hell he is, he needs _us_ to kick his ass? What d'ya think we're gonna be able to do? We're fucking meat, dead meat. The only person that makes Sinister shit his pants is Apocalypse. Why do ya think that is? The way I heard it, he spent better than a hundred years tryin' to find a way to off him an' he's come up empty every damn time. This time ain't gonna be different or if it is, we're the front line that's gonna get wasted."

In a completely diplomatic tone, Gorgeous George addressed both teams as if he was campaigning for some political office. "I'm not suggesting we go against the Boss, but what Creed is saying here has some merit. I'm a little tired of being cooped up here and more importantly, going up against Apocalypse? Unless Sinister is going to do some kind of genetic tinkering, which I'm not crazy about as well, I have to agree with Creed and I think we should - pass on this assignment," George said trying to chose his words carefully. "We're not anywhere in Apocalypse's league. And in case anyone's noticed, he isn't one of the _goodguys_ that we're used to fighting. We lose, we're not going to prison. Apocalypse won't hesitate to kill us and from what I hear, he's not likely to make it easy on us."

"Even a shithead like George, has more fuckin' brains than the frails on my _team._ So what are we gonna do about it?" Creed growled asking everyone.

"How many times have I warned you Victor," the familiar silk smooth voice suddenly sliced through the room, and had everyone's complete attention, "not to nurture the seeds of discontent?"

Creed inhaled sharply. Not a sound, no scent, not even the sense of a physical presence. Sinister was about the only person who could sneak up on him without any warning, and about the only person that that fact would cause him considerable concern.

Sinister casually walked the few feet to stand directly in front of Victor Creed, towering above even Sabertooth's great height. The appearance of refined manners, the semblance of politeness was still present in the words he spoke, but like the flicking of a light switch, it had vanished from his face and tone. He was one of them...brutish, violent, sadistic - without mercy. Sinister didn't even look at Creed, his confidence and control of both teams was so complete, he could turn his back to this room full of killers and not have a thing to worry about.

"Your esteemed teammate wants you to believe that you have the option to either participate or forgo involvement in any of my planned operations. I hope I don't have to dispel any impressions that any of you have a choice in this or any matter. The illusion of choice is just that - an illusion." Sinister looked around the room, daring anyone to meet his eyes with even the remotest gaze of defiance.

The room had gone deathly silent. Eyes darted around the room resembling those of trapped animals. They had all come under this extremely uncomfortable inspection by Sinister before. Sometimes it had beenbrought on seeminglyfor no reason at all.

"Why don't you join us Philipa?" Sinister said picking her out of the group. "I want to be assured that everyone gets the message I seem to have to impart every so often." Arclight was the last of the Marauders that needed be to reminded of just who was in charge. Her psychotic loyalty and verve to do Sinister's bidding was without question. But even those whose fidelity was beyond reproach were subject to Sinister's over-zealous scrunity. It was his common practice to employ any number of terror tactics to dissuade even the most fleeting thought of dissention. It said that you were not able to hide, nothing was beneath my notice. And no matter how devoted and dedicated you were to Sinister, it was never enough. You were always on the precipice of being eliminated.

The grotesquely muscled woman quickly moved to the forefront, her ungainly walk belying the fact that she was a skilled fighter, which was enhanced by a merciless disposition and enormous strength. She shoved Vertigo roughly out of her way, who winced in pain, her slight build offering no protection against the huge woman's strength. She wisely said nothing, knowing that her mutant powers were no match against Arclight.

Sinister suddenly directed his full attention to Creed, pinning him with a frightening stare. "Victor, why is it that sometimes I'm under the impression that you believe that I am one of your contemporaries? Is it me...am I misinterpreting what you just said? You're closer to your primal self and know better than just about anyone the laws of the jungle and who heads this pack of animals," Sinister's tone of disgust clearly audible, "so to speak. What does your animal instinct tell you now...right now? Fight or flight? Think very carefully Victor, before you answer."

Keen savage understanding was reflected in his eyes. Victor Creed lived by his most base emotions, never hesitating to act on his sadistic nature and right now his bloodlust threatened to overwhelm his most basic and primal instinct - survival. He wanted to surrender to his urges - to the insatiable hunger for the kill. He wanted to tear Sinister's throat out with his teeth and feel and taste the warm iron rich fluid splash against the back of his throat. Unfortunately, Sinister didn't possess an actual throat one with blood coursing through veins and arteries - no vital organs that could be torn out and feasted on. He wasn't even remotely human or even alive as far as he could tell - even with all his enhanced senses. He was just a big fucking blob of jelly and couldn't be hurt in any way that Victor was aware of. He'd also been on the receiving end of Sinister's great strength. With hardly any effort at all, Sinister had physically restrained him like he was a petulant schoolgirl. Sinister could hurt him in so many ways, beating him to death was easily the least frightening. Most of the team was made of clones. They had either been killed during a mission or Sinister had gotten rid of them for any number of reasons. Hell, Creed thought, Sinister had even managed to kill Malice, a psychic entity that Victor himself didn't believe could be killed. And he did it so easily, like it was just an afterthought.

He had no trouble admitting to himself that he was scared shitless of Sinister, damn scared of him. But now Sinister wanted him to go up against someone...that Sinister himself was scared of? He wasn't a fucking idiot.

"Perhaps a trip to the infirmary is what is needed. I believe that I possess some surgical equipment that could be used to locate and remove this heart of dissention," Sinister said, his threat deadly serious.

Creed knew he had no choice in the matter, there wasn't even any thought to saving face. When the time came, he would find a way to survive, and maybe Apocalypse and Sinister would just kill each other off.

Creed put his best, _eat crow_, smile on. "I gotta learn to keep my big mouth shut. I got no problems and when the time comes, I'm gonna do what I'm told - like my track record shows."

Sinister smiled, but it contained no warmth or humor. "That's very commendable Victor - but not good enough, I'm afraid. Kodiak, if you would be so kind." Sinister's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Kodiak reached behind himself into the cache of harpoons that he always carried, and using his mutant powers, charged the weapon to a white-hot glow. He did none of this by his own volition. It was obvious by his expression and the rigidity of his movements that he was completely in Sinister's thrall. The harpoon was not thrown but torn from his grasp and sailed across the room and landed squarely in Creed's chest.

"I must apologize to Kodiak. I appropriated some of his talents to teach Victor an important lesson," Sinister said apologetically. "I don't enjoy pitting _family_ members against one another, but sometimes wayward children must be punished."

Creed was flat on the his back, a glowing spear protruding from a gaping wound in the center of his chest. A large patch of blood had quickly spread across his shirt and was dripping profusely onto the floor. He was conscious, but gasping for breath, and was struggling to sit up.

"As you may have already noticed, your healing factor is having a bit of trouble coping with Kodiak's weapon. His mutant powers which convert matter to bioenergy have an interesting effect of inhibiting some natural functions such as healing. No doubt eventually your healing factor would overcome this - in time, but you would suffer unnecessarily." Sinister motioned to Hairbag. "Michael, in the spirit of cooperation between the two teams, why don't you help Victor up and facilitate his journey to Kodiak so he can remove the offending item. Since Victor was the culprit, I only think it fair that Victor makes the effort to go to Kodiak and not the reverse, despite his injuries. I know it seems somewhat inconsequential but I try to be evenhanded even in dealing with the likes of...well all of you."

Hairbag moved quickly to carryout Sinister's instructions.

Sinister turned his back to both teams and opened a tesseract. "I want all of you to clean-up this repulsive mess. I believe it should help you perform as a team because nothing else has worked so far. I trust that there will no further doubts or hesitation about following any of my instructions?" Sinister asked without turning. His inquiry was met with total silence. "Very good oh and George," Sinister said glancing over his shoulder.

George shifted nervously and had been silently praying that Sinister hadn't heard or overlooked his lapse of good judgment. He swallowed fretfully and dreaded what might come next.

"Perhaps you should think things through a little more thoroughly before you _openly_ condone Victor's somewhat rebellious ideas." Sinister walked through the tesseract, but not before gesturing over his shoulder towards George and then disappeared.

A terrified look crossed George's face as his mouth opened wide but no sound escaped. Like the Wicked Witch from the Wizard of Oz, Gorgeous George melted into a gray puddle that slowly spread across the floor, his facial features disappearing into an oozing mass. Sinister knew their powers so well and as he had many times in the past demonstrated how easily he could control them. He had simply reached into George's mind and removed his ability to maintain his cellular cohesion.

Sinister had learned long ago just how effective fear was what an extremely powerful motivator and means of control it permitted. His ability to instill fear was so effective simply because of his abilities. Mutants had come to rely almost solely on their powers becoming lazy and reliant on almost nothing else. So much of their personal security became tied to it. He did have a certain flair for psychological showmanship, but it was his capability to wrest control, or remove their mutant powers that seemed to instill the fear that allowed him to manage them properly. He supposed his skill at torture and the fact that he could kill them at any time was an important factor as well.

Sinister exited the tesseract and entered a circular shaped room with a high-domed ceiling. A grand piano and accompanying bench both positioned at the exact center of this room were the only things it contained. Decades ago, he had built this sanctuary with his own two hands. Because he was a perfectionist in everything he did, a great deal of attention had been given to the room design in order to optimize the acoustics. The physical properties of the room shape, volume, had been laboriously studied before anything was built. The acoustic characteristics of materials, which form the sound field, were all carefully selected in terms of sound insulation, absorption, reflection, scattering and sound radiation, all this was taken into consideration. These were the subjects of study, which were analyzed both theoretically and experimentally by Sinister, and his findings were put into practice when he built this room. Truth be told, he spent almost as much time here as he did in his laboratory. This room was his haven, where he was able to express a part of himself that he thought had been lost, a part of his soul that reveled in the creation of beauty for no real practical application other than personal pleasure. He often came here after he had dealt with the Marauders, Nasty Boys, or other distasteful individuals he was forced to deal with. It was a place he felt that he could cleanse himself, or shed his skin revealing another layer that was truer to his inner self. It was his attempt to reclaim a part of himself what he was like before, so long ago.

He prided himself on his ability to understand others, what motivated them; how they could be controlled, or manipulated and how ironic it was that the duality of his own nature puzzled him to no end. The manner in which he treated the Marauders or the Nasty Boys was in no way typical of a desire for power to control others was indeed a distinctive trait of humanity, particularly now in mutants whose wondrous abilities made that all the more possible. But he derived no pleasure, no satisfaction at controlling the dullards he employed to do his _dirty work_. No, for him, his appalling treatment of mutants like Sabertooth or George stemmed simply from the fact that he despised them.

They were nothing more than a bunch of untamed animals, wild, and ill-mannered. Even at their very best, they were small-minded, violent, uncultured, loutish. But it was foolish to deny that they represented a side of _him_, of Mr. Sinister, that he loathed. Yes, every human being had a dark side, but most were able to control it, hiding it in a murky recess of their soul. Others, a small and diseased percentage had no such restrictions, restraint wasn't even a consideration. The Marauders were an excellent example and for him it was if the stain on his soul, his personal evil was brought out into the light of day through the Marauders. Every personal shame, ugly blemish, and hidden flaw, was removed and conveyed into existence for all to see. He punished them for his own weakness, over and over, even death offering no escape. He sometimes believed that he had invented and perfected cloning for no other purpose than this. He even recognized that they served an additional purpose, allowing him the appearance of civility, the misconception that he did not have to sully his own hands with the things that they could do for him that there was a distinct difference because of this between them. How utterly preposterous, he thought. He had killed and tortured more people personally, or through others, over so many years than all of them combined. A part of him acknowledged this - that he was a thousand times worse than any of them, and had certainly never needed a group of dimwitted criminals to help him with any endeavor.And yet he surrounded himself with these miscreants anyway - why?

He no longer wished to ponder this - or question the motive behind his behavior, past or present. He sat down and placed his fingers on the keysand began to play.

* * *

The sound was rich, vibrant, the music uplifting yet contained some somber tones as well that somehow conveyed a deep yearning. 

Henry loved classical music, cherished the music of the masters like Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert, and Strauss. He played the piano quite well and had actually composed a few pieces himself. He never believed his compositions were very good, but he recognized good, even brilliant music when he heard it. The arrangement he was listening to now was incredibly complex; Henry doubted even with an indefinite amount of practice, he could ever play it himself. But there was Sinister of all people, his fingers dancing lightly across the keys, an obvious master, a virtuoso, an impresario. He gave himself over to the music, which seemed to come from him and not the instrument. His music was somehow on a new plane of spiritual depth, personal, almost too private to be shared or heard by anyone else. The melody infused the room with magic and communicated an emotional intensity Henry had never experienced before. Sinister played with his eyes closed, not a page of sheet music to refer to. He appeared to be completely immersed in his music, and was someplace else, someplace that he would rather be than where he was now. Once again Henry was struck and unable to reconcile this with the man who sat before him who could produce such beauty, and the heinous villain known as Mr. Sinister. This was a completely different person, someone who was born to do nothing else but play, and if that person had done nothing else with his life but create this one piece of magnificence, it would have been enough to assure him of his greatness and immortality.

Henry had heard the unexpected splendor of the piano sonata coming from a small room as he was walking around an as of yet, unexplored area of Sinister's complex. He entered the room and found Sinister seated at a magnificent instrument. It appeared to be an all-original Victorian artcase Steinway grand piano with beautiful handcarved legs, lyre, and carved music rack. Elegant trim surrounded the case, which was made of a wild flame mahogany. The piano had a beautiful ivory keyboard, which gleamed liked they were carved just yesterday.

"Is that a Steinway model "B"? Henry asked when Sinister had finished playing.

"Indeed. You have an excellent eye," Sinister responded, and placed his hands on his lap. "The piano was a gift from my mother on my tenth birthday."

Henry simply raised an eyebrow but was inwardly surprised on such a personal piece of information from Sinister. Henry also had trouble once again relating the man that was one of the X-Men's greatest enemies with the thought of that same person receiving a birthday gift from his mother no less and Sinister as a ten-year-old boy.

"And the piece?" Henry inquired further. "I cannot believe how intricate and complex that piano sonata is. I don't recognize it but it is one of the most beautiful pieces I've ever heard, and the way you play is simply extraordinary. "

"You enjoy the way I play?" Sinister asked, seeming actually surprised. "I've always thought I was technically competent but never considered that I possessed any natural talent. I've even studied how the pianist can influence the music by what he does at the piano...other than of course playing the correct notes with the sequence and timing required of him. There was an actual study, which was documented in a 1937 that I found very interesting. Cambridge University Press published a book, Science & Music, by the noted physicist, Sir James Jeans, in which he presented in lay terms the known mathematical and physical foundations of music. Among other things, he denied the claim of the pianist that the quality of sound can be affected by the way the key is depressed. In striking a single note, the pianist has only one variable at his disposal - the force with which he strikes the key; this determines the velocity with which the hammer hits the wires and once this is settled all the rest follows automatically."

Sinister continued. "In spite of all this, musicians can clearly hear the variation in tone quality on an acoustic piano. Even laymen will say that they prefer the 'touch' - meaning tone - of one pianist to that of another. It is true that some pianists have made extravagant claims about their ability to express various emotions with a single note. Liszt occasionally wrote "vibrato" on his piano pieces. Apparently he believed, as have others, that rocking the finger on the key, as a violinist rocks his finger on a string, will produce such an effect. Since, after the string is struck, the only connection between key and either string or soundboard is via the massive frame, it would be difficult to explain such an effect. It is more likely that the performer's ear would be affected. Perhaps Liszt was sufficiently acute psychologically to realize that the sight of a rocking finger would convince some listeners that they were hearing a vibrato." Sinister abruptly stopped. "I sometimes get carried away and need to be reminded that my obsessions are not exactly the norm," Sinister finished with a tight smile.

Henry smiled in response thinking how the X-Men often _tolerated_ his overly technical and long responses to simple questions or statements. But Henry was always fascinated to hear what Sinister had to say, not just because of the scientist in him, but so much of what Sinister said defined the man that he was. Even when Sinister expounded at length on the most mundane of subjects Henry believed that maybe something from that could be used either for the X-Men or against Sinister. "What ever the reason, the song and your playing are magnificent." Henry simply answered.

"Thank you. I wrote it overnight...for my son Adam. It was a gift for his fourth birthday. The last birthday gift I was able to give him I'm afraid," Sinister said softly, his voice trailing off like a train whistle moving away at a distance.

Henry was stunned. Another extremely personal revelation. Sinister had opened up the door. The setting seemed right to ask the next question.

If it is not too personal, how did your son die?

Sinister gave him a strange look and then simply answered his question.

"I am sure that you are familiar with Lysosmal Storage Diseases."

Henry nodded. "Although, that covers a rather broad variety diseases. All are inborn-errors of the metabolism resulting primarily from the absence of an enzyme whose target is a substance to be discarded from cellular tissues. This may result in mental and physical disability or in most cases shortened life spans," Henry said and trailed off softly.

"My son had Batten disease, Which is the most common form of a group of disorders called Neuronal Ceroid Lipofuscinoses or NCLs."

Henry nodded knowingly a grave expression on his face.

Sinister went on, a haunted and faraway expression on his face. "Over time, affected children suffer from mental impairment, worsening seizures, and progressive loss of motor skills. Eventually, children with Batten Disease become blind, bedridden, and unable to communicate and at the time...the disease was always fatal."

"I'm sorry," Henry offered up somewhat feebly.

Sinister simply nodded. "Four years. I spent a little more than four with my son. Such a short time," Sinister said wistfully. "He was an amazing boy and what I'm about to tell you will seem incredible, but it is all true."

Sinister stood and bade me to sit down and I did. He began to slowly pace around the room put and clasped his hands behind his back and began to speak. "You're the first and only person I have spoken to about this time in my life. The year was 1855. I think it was the last time that I was happy..."

* * *

The planetoid dangled in space, a gray barren rock, its surface, like the skin of an orange had been peeled away andscarred from years of weapons testing. The aura of a tomb hung over the landscape like a heavy morning fog. Large craters marred the terrain and not a single mountain or artificial structure could be found anywhere on the planet a fitting testament to the military might of the mighty Shi'ar Empire. 

The face of the planet, once almost a sunless world, in that it had been completely enshrouded by a canopy of tree leaves and dense vegetation had been covered by shadows but was lush and crawling with life. The planet's land masses consisted of three huge continents, all of which were similar to Earth's Amazon rain forest in climate, only on a much larger scale. The variety of primitive lifeforms, animal, plant, and insect were incredibly diverse and almost impossible to account for and classify. Now that the surface was continually exposed to a merciless sun and a torrent of radiation nothing of that abundant life remained. There was no free-flowing water on the surface of the planet. What little water was left was confined to the poles and was frozen solid. Both the water and most of the atmospherehad beenburned or leeched away by the latest experimental Shi'ar high-energy particle weapons or the newest planetary bombardment devices. The temperature rarely even approached within a hundred degrees of the freezing point of water. There had been no sign of life native or otherwise in over two centuries. This was an ideal place to conduct a clandestine meeting between the two parties involved.

The Shi'ar attack dreadnaught dropped noiselessly from the sea of stars and gently set down on the planet's surface. A small dust cloud was the only sign that the huge spaceship had landed. An opening in the form of an access ramp smoothly descended from the seamless base of the ship. Almost immediately twenty Shi'ar imperial guardsman, more specifically Deathbird's personal guards filed out in order and took up preassigned positions. Ruthless, fanatically loyal, and expertly trained, this undersized group bristled with the latest Shi'ar weaponry. Each was outfitted with personal forceshields that protected them from the harsh environment and also safeguarded them from most any weapon. Individually, one guard would be more than a match for an entire battalion of troops and not susceptable to anything the US military had in its inventory. As a group, they would be virtually unstoppable and were the equivalent of a large army. Their charge, Cal'Syee Neramani, sister to the Majestrix Empress Lilandra, strode off the narrow platform with all the majesty of her family bloodline.

She was unaccustomed to waiting and before her renowned temper was aroused, a shimmering light heralded the arrival of the other party.

"Your Majesty," Apocalypse bowed his deep voice clearly audible even in the thin atmosphere. "I thought trust," he gestured towards her guards and smiled, "was the cornerstone of our arrangement."

"Lord Apocalypse," she answered with a predatory smile, as all of her imperial guardsman pointed their weapons directly at Apocalypse. "My retinue travel wherever I go, which is simply a show of protocol. As you can see they are overly protective. It is certainly not a reflection on you."

She walked forward narrowing the fifty-foot distance between them to about ten. Two of her guards peeled off from the rest of the group and matched her stride for stride and came to stop one pace behind her.

Her disdain for off-worlders was no secret, for humans in particular it was almost legendary. She considered them unimportant, primitive both culturally and technologically. Earth was a backwater planet and would never be a military threat to the great Shi'ar empire. Although this one _Earther_ was different. He possessed a presence, and although she was loathe to admit it, she had a surprising underlying fear of him.

She looked at him dispassionately but once again could not refrain from staring because of how odd she felt he looked. His strange amalgam of both organic and machine technology as part of his being and in a way that her scientists were unable to classify, made him one of the most peculiar creatures she had ever encountered. And the technology at this disposal - his transport technology alone was unmatched by anything that the Shi'ar themselves had anywhere in the empire. She had dealt with enough powerful enemies to know that Apocalypse was extremely dangerous and there was no denying the resources he had at his disposal nor the amazing results he had produced.

"Our _alliance_ has proven to be mutually beneficial. The intelligence you required was gathered and provided by my agents and you and your Skrull associates have infiltrated the highest recesses of the Imperium, which has put the throne in my grasp. Why would either of us have any reason to distrust one another at this point?" Deathbird asked with a completely reasonable tenor.

Apocalypse smiled menacingly. "Because my dear Deathbird, my Skrull _associates_ have also been watching _you_ quite closely. Yes, I gave you the technical ability to see through the shapeshifter's disguises as a gesture of goodwill and trust. I'm afraid that the technology is somewhat faulty or misleading. It only allows you to see the particular Skrulls I want you to see. Those who have gone unnoticed by you have reported some rather _personally_ upsetting news to me." Apocalypse almost looked hurt. "You've come here to kill me today."

A flurry of emotions quickly crossed her face with the shocking realization that she had been deceived. They just as quickly disappeared and were replaced with one expression -as Deathbird smiled menacingly as well. "Since it would be ill-mannered of me to prove you wrong - you traitorous primitive, I'm not going to contradict your allegation, but confirm it. Kill him," she commanded.

Her imperial guards fired immediately. All impeccable marksmen, each shot hit Apocalypse either in the head or torso. The collective power of the energy weapons was blinding - his body shone like a piece of magnesium filament that had been placed in a flame. When the glow faded, Apocalypse stood unscathed and unharmed. In a way he seemed lifeless, and more closely resembled a huge unmovable monolith, unchangeable by either time or elements than a living being.

Before the Shi'ar guardsmen could fire again, hands the size of refrigerators picked up the imperial guardsmen on either side of Deathbird and smashed them together. As they made contact, their individual shields shimmered for a brief second and then collapsed under the force of the impact. Apocalypse's great hands came together...completely, as if they had been empty. The two Shi'ar guards disappeared and then a single unrecognizable mass fell to the dirt. At the same time, twin beams of energy exploded from Apocalypse's eyes and raked over the remaining guards, penetrating their shields as if they weren't there. They were all burnt to a crisp, reduced to nothing but ashes, individual wisps of black smoke was all that remained of the once living Shi'ar guardsman.

Terrified, Deathbird turned to run up the ramp and return to the safety of the attack ship. Powerful weapons, normally used only in space because of their enormous energy output turned, training their aim on Apocalypse. A massive hand shot by her before she could set foot on the ramp. There was a flash of energy followed by a huge explosion. Deathbird was picked up off her feet and violently thrown to ground. The only thing that had saved her life was the combination of her combat armor and forceshield.

Deathbird slowly returned to her feet and was incredulous as she saw her once proud attack ship completely engulfed in flame, destroyed. Her crew were either trapped inside or mercifully dead. The preeminent military Shi'ar space vessel, able to withstand the most inhospitable regions of space, able to resist and overcome a fleet of Kree or Skrull attack craft, destroyed by one lone being.

"That ship could raze an entire continent. The Shi'ar shields we carry are virtually impenetrable. How can you be from that primitive ball of mud and possess such power? What manner of creature are you?" Deathbird spat, her hatred of Apocalypse and frustration at seeing all of her plans ruined by a simple earthman. Her anger was so great that she even had momentarily forgotten that she was now alone with no manner of defense or escape.

A few words from Apocalypse and her predicament and memory were quickly restored with crystal clarity.

"_Virtually_ impenetrable as is your own personal shield I take it...Empress," Apocalypse said ominously as he moved closer.

Deathbird would not be cowed by this Earth-beast. She held her ground. "You will rue the day you betrayed our alliance you deceitful animal. Do you think what you did here today makes any difference? The Pan-Galactic Shi'ar Empire consists of thousands of star systems. A single battle cruiser could lay waste to your entire solar system in less than one hour. You humans will never be allowed to reach the stars and spread your pestilence. You will remain on your single paltry world and kill each other off before the majority of the more advanced races ever even knew you existed. In less than a century, there will be no trace of your people or its pitiful excuse for a culture. If you do not destroy yourselves, the Shi'ar, Skrulls, Kree, Baddoon, Brood, or any other number of races will take your world for themselves. Your race is too immature, nothing but a group of squabbling barbarians. Earth and its inhabitants never had a chance nor should they be given one," she said with satisfying contempt.

"You are quite correct. Your technology, your ships, your people by shear numbers, humanity would have no chance. That's why humanity will never be directly involved in any of your wars. They will never have to be. You see my dear Deathbird, you were named Viceroy of the Kree territories because of me," Apocalypse said, this strange piece of information seemingly out of place considering what they had just been discussing.

Deathbird responded, a confused expression on her face. "What are you talking about? You make little sense mutant, and I believe that you're insane," Deathbird snapped.

"Many of my _fellow_ humans and mutants would agree with you but I'm afraid I'm quite sane. I also understand that it is difficult to believe that I could have anything to do with your appointment either directly or indirectly - but I assure you it is true. And it will be your world and your great empire that will be reduced to dust and a distant memory.

"You may have some freak power, mutant, but you over-emphasize your role and abilities if you think I could believe that a mere terran could have the far reaching effects that you claim. You assert that you're a master manipulator behind a war between two star spanning empires, when you hold no rank, rule no land or people on even your own insignificant rock," Deathbird scoffed.

"You are correct, even I cannot claim _sole_ responsibility for everything that has befallen your race." Apocalypse laughed. "You believe that you are the one who has made cruelty a game and treachery an art. I had someone in my employ who made your duplicitous machinations look like a bunch school children fighting over a ball in a playground. His genetic wizardry helped the Kree who worship nothing but science give birth to the Supreme Intelligence. Your _God_ with his superior intellect concluded that through genocide an even superior race would arise." Apocalypse laughed again. "Where _on earth,_ did he ever get that idea? With an intricate plan, a few well-placed Skrulls, several years of infiltration, and my infinite patience, the Shi'ar-Kree War was born. Thousands of worlds fell, the Kree themselves have almost become extinct, their homeworld of Hala, a shadow of what it once was.(1) Like a pack of Hyenas you fell on one another, killing with a bloodlust that even surprised me.

"Your claims are utter nonense - you're delusional," Deathbird answered, her tone angry but lacking conviction.

"Believe what you will, it matters not. Enough blood has been spilled that vengeance against one another is the only consideration that will occupy the lives of all of the alien races that would be a threat to humanity. I simply fan the flames. It will consume them for generations."

For the first time Deathbird paused and gave some consideration to Apocalypse's outlandish claims. His tone was she couldn't quite put it into words, but he simply did not sounded like a bragart. "To what end, so that humanity will be ignored left alone...?" she said her voice trailing of softly, a confused expression changing to one of understanding. She began to fully realize but was still unable to accept, the scope of Apocalypse's plan.

Like a meteor, Gladiator tore through the air and slammed into Apocalypse with an explosion of sound as the impact sent him crashing to the ground a thousand feet from where he stood. A huge cloud of dirt and dust rose into the air obscuring any sign of Apocalypse.

The Preator of the Imperial Guard, Gladiator, possibly the most powerful individual in the entire Shi'ar Empire, and one of the most powerful beings in the known universe stood before Deathbird. After traveling under his own power over an incredibly long distance in the harsh conditions of deep space, and after a cataclysmic collision with Apocalypse, he looked impeccable. Both his uniform and body had neither a mark or scratch on them.

Gladiator bowed deeply. "Princess," he addressed her deferentially. Although often at odds with Lliandra, her quest for power clouding her judgment and what was best for the empire, she was still sister to the Majestrix, and of the royal bloodline, holding rank of Viceroy of the Kree territories. If nothing else, Gladiator abided by and conformed to the strict protocols of Shi'ar tradition accorded to those of royal blood. He would treat her with the respect and obey her orders as long as they did not conflict with those of her sister the Empress. It did not mean that he trusted her.

"The Empress ordered me to watch over you to insure your continued well being. When you left Hala at such a late hour informing no one and in the attack Dreadnaught, I thought it best that I follow you. I managed to track you to this world, but was some distance behind you and arrived," he gestured to the remains of the dead guardsmen and the burning ship, "too late. What happened here and who is the creature that you met with?"

Although she was somewhat displeased, but not surprised by the fact that her sister was spying on her, she was overjoyed that Gladiator had destroyed Apocalypse. A moment ago she had that that her life was about to come to an end, now she only had to cover her treachery something she was quite skilled at doing. "He calls himself Apocalypse and is a mutant from Earth. I had uncovered a plot against the throne once again involving Skrulls. I only sought to learn how deep this plot went, uncovering what I could first before informing Lliandra herself," she spoke with utter sincerity.

Apocalypse emerged from the dirt cloud, materializing like an Egyptian monolith from a fading desert sand storm. He appeared more massive, marching forward like a huge locomotive unable to be deterred from its course. "What a wonderful tale you tell little bird."

Deathbird hissed. Impossible. How could this terran survive a blow like she just witnessed from Gladiator. Just how powerful was this mutant?

Apocalypse turned towards Gladiator. "Not very sporting of you striking me from behind," he rumbled.

"Even in warfare or combat, truth and integrity can be maintained in a fashion between men of honor. I owe no such consideration to a vile creature like yourself. Although these imperial guardsmen's loyalty might lie more with Deathbird than with the throne, they were Shi'ar and didn't deserve this indignity. How you accomplished this," he gestured towards the carnage, "and survived my initial attack terran, I do not know. But I do know that you will not be leaving here alive."

"You speak of honor, I am alone and was attacked first, and I assure you _Preator_," Apocalypse smiled with cold certainty, "it will be you who will join the rest of your alien filth into the dust of this long dead world."

Anger overwhelmed all of Gladiator's senses. The terran's death was no longer just his duty but had become more personal. The death and dishonor suffered by the imperial guards due to this offworlder as well his continued disrespect for all things Shi'ar was intolerable. He would take great pleasure in killing him with his own hands.

Without exchanging another word, Gladiator rushed forward, or more aptly, flew forward, his feet barely off the ground and furiously delivered a series successive overhand blows. Apocalypse skillfully and deftly deflected the mammoth strikes and was able to weather the onslaught with relative ease. He seemed more galvanized than weakened by the attack, but simply chose to stand and not press an attack of his own as if to emphasize the futility of Gladiator's assault.

Gladiator was stunned for a brief moment that any being could withstand such a physical assault and stepped back to change his tactics. Twin beams of energy lanced out from his eyes sizzling the very air separating them. Apocalypse's right forearm morphed in response into a medieval shaped shield that was large enough to cover his entire body. Using the shield to conceal his strike, Apocalypse stepped in and drove his foot into the gut of his opponent. The alien flew back, a grunting gasp escaped his lips as he landed hard on the ground. The great and supremely powerful Preator of the Imperial Guard appeared foolish sitting on his hindquarters with a look of incredulity on how his attack did not kill or even hurt Apocalypse.

Changing his strategy or endeavoring to develop one, he immediately employed another one of his vastarray of powers and attempted to see _through_ Apocalypse to perhaps detect a weakness. Much like an X-ray machine that saw through the outer layers of skin to enable doctors to see the denser skeletal components beneath, Gladiator adjusted his vision, traversing the entirety of the electro-magnetic spectrum in seconds. It was an attempt to determine why his blows and thermoscopic eyebeams had no effect on Apocalypse. He quickly discovered why he was unsuccessful. He concluded that Apocalypse's outer shell, whatever the material was, was just too dense...which was impossible. He had never come across a material, let alone another living being that was impervious to his eyebeams. His brief reverie was rudely interrupted.

Apocalypse stepped forward to press his attack, and Gladiator automatically countered, his years of training and fighting taking over as he grabbed Apocalypse's ankle and used it as an anchor to swing up and around to deliver a vicious blow to his kidney's.

Once again, a blow that could have toppled a mountain, seemed to have no effect on Apocalypse. He responded with incredible speed and clamped onto Gladiator's wrists and lifted him off the ground, high over his head as if he weighed almost nothing. Apocalypse then drove him to the ground, dirt and rocks flew into the air as a small crater formed from the brutal impact.

Deathbird was knocked off her feet by the shockwave. Rocks both small and large bounced off her shield once again preventing her from injury. The deadly projectiles would have cut her in half if not forthe Shi'ar technology.

Releasing his crushing grip from Gladiator's wrists, Apocalypse wrapped his hands around Gladiator's throat and sunk his fingers of both hands into the flesh of his neck. Apocalypse anticipated the blow from Gladiator's liberated hands and grunted when they came. The blows were thrown with massive force, fueled by desperation in an almost frantic attempt to dislodge Apocalypse's choke hold from around his neck. With an incredible display of power, Gladiator straining from the effort, managed to fly first one foot, then two feet off the ground. But some unknown force applied by Apocalypse would not allow Gladiator to gain any momentum or altitude and they came crashing down into a stone outcropping. But Gladiator was still unable to extricate himself from Apocalypse's unbearable hold.

Again, fueled by a fundemental survival instinct, Gladiator attained a new level of strength and managed to roll on top of Apocalypse, reigning thunderous blows onto his head. With one hand, Apocalypse released his hold on Gladiator's throat and attempted to block some of Gladiator's prodigious strikes. Apocalypse morphed the fingers of the hand that still clung to Gladiator's neck into five razor sharp blades. Slowly under the colosal pressure of Apocalypse's grip they began to penetrate Gladiator's incredibly dense hide. Gladiator began to howl with pain and frustration as blood began to first seep and then spray from his wounds. Moisture sloshed between the two of them making it impossibly slippery for Gladiator to find any purchase for either a defensive or offensive strike. They rolled together as more of Gladiator's blood fountained into the air and speckled the ground as they splashed through the blood soaked soil.

Deathbird stood open-mouthed and stunned. Before this point, she would have thought that for Gladiator to sustain physical injury let alone of this magnitude would have been out of the question. But to be soundly defeated in battle would have been categorically impossible, to a terran no less, ridiculously hopeless. Her surprise quickly changed to panic with the realization that his defeat also meant her certain death as well.

At the sight of so much of his own blood, Gladiator's confidence began to falter and with it, his strength and invulnerability. He had fought individuals that spanned the galaxy - all with incredible powers, and had clashed with super-powered beings with incalculable physical strength, and not one of them had shed a drop of his blood. Yet somehow this alien had accomplished the impossible- and had done it easily without even the hint of injury. But he was the Preator of the Imperial Guard, warrior born and bred, surrender was not and never was an option. He would fight with all his body and soul in defense of the empire and his empress.

At that very same moment, with Gladiator's defeat looming, Apocalypse felt a sense of satisfaction wash over him and arealization or confirmation what he was like at his core. While he was engrossed in the heat of battle, at the heart of turmoil, pain and blood, it was here and only here that he was happy andin familiar territory. A spiritual communion known only to true and untainted warriors - it was here and in no other place that he actually allowed himself to feel a modicum of pleasure. It was a place where his inexhaustable self-control could be put aside for a short time, topermit himself some sort of relief or reprieve. Here death was the only escape, and the simplicity or purity of no choices or alternatives - kill or be killed, nature's most fundamental tenet was Apocalypse's concept of ultimate beauty. Here he had found the world he searched for - a world that did not contain any pretenses or fascades. It was at that wild place at the center of a battle to the death, where he had found a home.

Ignoring his bloodloss and pain, with renewed effort, Gladiator shook with a cold rage that knew no bounds. He thrashed wildly for release and grasped Apocalypse's wrist and with a herculean effort, somehow managed to pull his hand and fingers from his neck. But once again his hand slipped on his own blood and he lost his grip. Apocalypse shifted his weight and placed his foot on Gladiator's chest regaining some leverage and grasped and pulled Gladiator's own wrist with such ferocity that his shoulder came out of its socket and the arm was torn free from his body.

Gladiator let out a sickening wail of pain as the arm tore loose and Apocalypse casually tossed the arm aside into a puddle of blood soaked mud.

Somehow he found the will and driven by a pain-wracked body, he swung his remaining arm with all the force he could muster at Apocalypse's tree-trunk wide legs. He still had the presence of mind to strike behind Apocalypse's knees and managed to sweep him off his feet. Eyebeams that could melt the densest Shi'ar materials and turn them into butter sliced into Apocalypse's chin.

Apocalypse raised his arm once again morphing it into a thick rectangular slab, blocking Gladiator's deadly eyebeams. He quickly managed to get his feet under his body allowing him the leverage to execute his next move.

In a blur of movement and transformation Apocalypse lunged forward, the top of his head morphing into a wicked two-foot blade. Apocalypse's hands once again caught hold of Gladiator's throat and leg, and crouching low, he drove forward blindly, picking him up and ramming Gladiator's body into the flat rock surface that stretched for miles and was once an enormous mountain range. Apocalypse's head, spear shaped, impaled Gladiator, the razor sharp tip sinking into his belly so deeply that Apocalypse's eyes were awashed in blood. His legs kept driving, holding the flailing body in place. His head twisted voraciously, almost hungrily, the sharped spear shape that was the top of Apocaypse's head disappeared into the newly rended hole. His head worked his way into the aliens anatomy, into gut and organs, spearing and tearing, then ripped from side to side. Gladiator's jaws opened spasmodically during this carnage, possibly attempting to scream in pain, but no sound came from his mouth...only a bubbling froth of thick blood.

Apocalypse withdrew his head, with a sick slurping sound, thick globs of blood as well as an assortment of internal organs coated and were stuck along the length of the blade. Apocalypse stood and backed away, a flash of light and his head returned to its normal shape and the blood and gore were burned away as if they had never been there. In an almost classical pose of the conqueror over the vanquished, Apocalypse stood over Gladiator, who was somehow still upright but in a kneeling position and despite his grievous wounds, would neither fall nor lose consciousness. Suddenly, awkwardly, Gladiator's hand brushed across the huge gaping wound and then stared at his blood-stained hand as if he could not understand where it came from. He also seemed unaware that this was his only remaining arm. Shreds of bloody skin and a short bony stump was the only thing left of his other arm. His hand then went limp and fell by his side. Gladiator's head followed and slowly fell forward, his chin coming to rest on his chest.

"You are a true warrior Gladiator, and if it were not for the events that I have set in motion on your planet that you would no doubt uncover and might prevent, I would let you live as a token of my respect for your fighting spirit."

Gladiator raised his head through the haze of pain and blood. He was unable to speak but managed to spit a bloody glob of saliva which splattered across Apocalypse's chest.

"Defiant to the end. Truly remarkable," Apocalypse said almost reverently. Apocalypse placed one hand on the top of Gladiator's head and the other under his chin. He tilted Gladiator's head up at a slight angle so that they could look at each other eye to eye - warrior to warrior. He violently twisted Gladiator's head snapping his neck and killing him instantly. Instead of dropping him unceremoniously and callously on the dirt, he gently lowered his body onto the ground there was an attentiveness to his movements that was at odds with the brutality of the last ten minutes.

Apocalypse slowly turned towards Deathbird. "I am loathe to kill a defenseless woman, it just does not seem humane. But then again, you're not human, and you've left me no choice. I believe the God that you Shi'ar pray to is named Ky'thri. I suggest you pray to her now."

Apocalypse moved closer and to her credit, she did not shrink or move away. Insane anger seeped into her features. Like a giant bird of prey, she spread her wings and sharpened talons, and shrieking a Shi'ar curse, leapt at Apocalypse.

Apocalypse reached for her and simply smiled.

* * *

References: 

1 X-Men Unlimited #5


	16. Chapter 16

Note; This chapter contains some mature content and language.

* * *

**A TEST OF POWER**

BY DR

**Chapter 15**

_If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, _  
_and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them._  
_But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being,_  
_and who is willing to destroy his own heart? _

Alexander Solzhenitsyn

_No man, who is not inflamed by vain-glory into enthusiasm,  
can flatter himself that his single, unsupported, desultory, unsystematic endeavors,  
are of power to defeat the subtle designs and united cabals of ambitious citizens.  
When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall,  
one by one, an **unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle. **_

**Edmund Burke**  
_Thoughts on the Cause of Present Discontent_

_The Present_

The room seemed unbearably frigid, enveloped in an impenetrable cold that would never thaw -- but it had nothing to do with the temperature. The confluence of evil, this degree of malevolence, like a blood clot, coagulated to prevent even the hint or idea of warmth from developing. Even the bright lab lights were muted and became indistinct, their very presence somehow seemed to exude a cloak of darkness that ate away at their radiance. It was as if their combined company was a focal point and created a small microcosm of the iniquitous universe of their origin -- that now dead reality.

The three mutants watched impassively as the test subject frenetically struggled to free herself. Her eyes bulged from their sockets as she strained every muscle in her body and violently thrashed against her adamantium restraints. The veins in her neck stood out in livid ridges and like cracks of an earthquake propagating from a major fault line, spread across the deeply striated muscles of her body.

Her endurance was amazing. The four-hundred and fifty pound woman had maintained this fever pitch for three straight days -- without food or water. The skin tone of her heavily muscled body was cherry red and her blood pressure was so off the charts that she should have had a heart attack or stroke by now. She pulled against her chains so ferociously that her efforts looked more like a spasm or seizure than an attempt to get loose. Even as she threw her head from side to side, her rage filled eyes remained fixed on her captor -- her personal tormentor, her creator, who only stared back with cold purpose -- and there was no mistaking the cruelty in his eyes as well. She returned his stare, and there was no misinterpreting the homicidal gaze that burned through the knotted strands of her grease coated hair, which covered and cast a dark shadow over her face.

The repetitive punishment and abuse -- relentless torture was probably a more apt description, because she had done nothing to deserve this brutal conduct towards her. The barbaric treatment was by no means arbitrary -- although it could have been. It was simply the best method to determine both her physical and mental limits. Up to this point, her healing factor had been able to cope with an assortment of physical injuries that would have instantly killed any human being and even some of the hardiest mutants. She had suffered deep wounds from point blank high caliber weapons fire, serious lacerations from stabbing and cutting instruments, multiple concussions from repeated blows to the head, tremendous blood loss, and third degree burns. She had even been exposed to a variety of the most virulent diseases and had always fully recovered. Of course she was never administered any medicine or something to help her cope with the pain -- it might have influenced or adversely affected the results of the experiment.

Unclothed since her creation and almost always under observation, she still couldn't possibly understand concepts such as modesty or privacy, yet it was quite clear that she despised the constant scrutiny that she was subjected to. Her screams didn't sound like anything that would issue from any female member of the human or mutant race, but were low and guttural and were a mixture of both pain and murderous fury. She sounded like a grizzly whose foot was caught in a bear trap and was willing to gnaw off its own leg to free itself -- or to get at the individual who had trapped it. Nor was there anything that could be mistaken for the spoken word in her inarticulate expressions of rage and pain. She was grown in an incubation accelerator for a little over six months and was administered a daily regiment of drugs that artificially matured her to an age equivalent to eighteen years. This was all accomplished in just over thirteen months. She had no vocabulary and her creator was not yet sure she was even capable of learning the art of language.

He tore out the long needles that bit into her flesh -- specialized pain inducers, along with monitoring probes that were imbedded under her skin. As usual, she tried with all her might to get at him but even her great strength could not break her restraints, which allowed her very little freedom of movement. This was not an unusual way for her captor to spend his time. Although she had no knowledge of this, he had done this to thousands of _test subjects,_ both human and mutant. He had visited every type of horror and hell on what he considered no more than expendable guinea pigs, sometimes for some obscure scientific pursuit and other times for some perverse personal pleasure. Many times he was unsure of the reasons himself, nor did he care. Whether they were his creations or simply those he had captured and made prisoner, there was never any pity or remorse for these unfortunate individuals -- only suffering.

Other eyes were locked on her but for different reasons. Had Dr. Frankenstein put together Humpty Dumpty using parts from the deceased like those used to make his famous creation, this hideous mutant might have been the result. Like Humpty Dumpty, his entire body was no more than an enormous egg-shaped head, which sat atop impossibly small legs. The proportions of both his legs and arms were almost comical and very similar in proportion to the arms of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. The dinosaur's ridiculously small arms were completely out of proportion to the rest of its body. The _Sugar Man_ shared that visual oddity with the prehistoric carnivore but while the dinosaur's arms were virtually useless, the mutant's limbs were anything but. For any size they possessed incredible strength and endurance. He also had four of them, two of which sprouted from the very top of his head.

The head itself was odd, not only because of its size, but because of its make-up as well. Its most prominent feature and one that dominated its facial landscape was a mouth -- or something more aptly described as a maw, which was filled with banana sized and colored serrated teeth. A relatively thin tongue of seemingly infinite length made its home there, and served more as a limb than a sensory organ for taste. Under Sugarman's skillful command he was able to deftly manipulate and grasp either slight or exceedingly heavy objects, lifting and maneuvering practically anything, usually used in his endless search for sustenance. This versatile muscle also had a sharp bony tip that could be used to spear and penetrate incredibly dense hides, and made a formidable and deadly weapon. The prehensile appendage unaided could be used as an efficient killing instrument to stab, whip, and strangle both innocent prey and adversaries alike, and often had been used like a straw to drain every ounce of fluid from the bodies of its unfortunate victims. As for the rest of his appearance, it was equally unattractive. He possessed a fleshy face that was mottled with a variety of ugly brown discolorations and skin tags of every shape and size. Tufts of course hair sprouted from boils speckled all over an unsymmetrical facial terrain, which looked like dying scrub brush on a desert dune. He had a large, wide nose that hung down over his front lip, evil slits for eyes and horns that would have made Lucifer himself green with envy.

Despite his freakish appearance, he was quite capable. With no forewarning, his short legs carried his body forward with terrible purpose as he simultaneously opened his mouth and quickly moved toward the shackled mutant. The inner recesses of his cavernous oral cavity was clearly visible as a bucketful of saliva swished around the interior and like an overloaded soap filled washing machine, spilled a fair amount of the frothing contents onto the floor.

The others watched, not surprised by his actions, and in no way tried to stop him. If anything they seemed expectant -- morbid curiosity colored their features.

He stopped abruptly, seeming anxious, yet his tongue uncoiled and languorously caressed first her cheek, then slithered down wrapping around her throat, and slowly slid down to more private areas leaving a trail of thick mucous to mark its passage. His eyes were ravenous, but not with sexual desire. They reflected a greedy and insatiable appetite for living flesh -- a voracious hunger that no amount of food could ever satisfy -- although Sugarman's unique physiology allowed him to metabolize anything he consumed. Whether it was organic or inorganic, his digestive system could assimilate anything. Dirt, rocks, glass, a hodgepodge of garbage, it made little difference. But he did have his _preferences_.

He reached out tentatively, almost shyly at first, and placed the palm of one of his small-clawed hands on the fleshiest portion of her buttocks. He squeezed gently, and an instant look of satisfaction appeared on his face because the texture and firmness of the skin and muscle beneath his hand seemed to meet or exceed some personal criteria. It was his way of determining suitability -- his way of sampling and then tenderizing his meat -- bringing the natural juices to the surface before consuming his succulent meal. The other hand wrapped around her calf anchoring him in place. Although he possessed an enormous appetite, which he pandered to at every turn, the bones seem to lie above the surface of the hand, the flesh under the bones making that component of his body appear skeletal and malnourished. Despite having no life experience other than being chained to a table, she seemed very aware of what was coming. Her struggles before seemed docile -- almost compliant in comparison. She became like a crazed and rabid animal, thrashing, contorting in seemingly multiple directions all at once.

With a primal roar, he drew back his lips and sank his teeth into the fleshy part of her thigh, tearing a huge chunk off and swallowed it whole. She screamed and reacted like a wild horse that had been simultaneously branded by a dozen searing hot irons and all her nerve endings were exposed to an insidiously synchronized torrent of pain. Blood sprayed and streamed in multiple directions as arteries and veins were liberated to spill their contents in huge splattering bursts and pool onto the floor. The wound was so deep and large that almost the entire length of her femur and the bottom portion of her hipbone were clearly visible.

He stepped back, his eyes were closed and a look of absolute bliss was clearly apparent across his ugly features. A lustful grunt of satisfaction bubbled up from some deep hellish recess and escaped his lips. Covered in blood, he began to cackle insanely like a monster from some B grade horror film, seeming to take great pleasure in his handiwork, and then abruptly his laugh withered like a delicate flower deprived of water. He then stared as if hypnotized -- transfixed solely on the injury he had inflicted. He secured his grip on her once again, and gingerly wrapped his ruddy colored lips around the chasm of missing flesh. His lips swelled obscenely as if inflated with air, completely covering the huge open wound making a perfect seal. Resembling a newborn baby, Sugarman gently suckled at the gash -- and then began to draw more forcefully, greedily, gulping as if he had been stranded in the desert and was dying of thirst.

Moans of pain or more probably despair escaped her lips as she quite possibly realized that her very life was being slowly drained away and she was helpless to stop this nightmarish mutant who was attached to her like an overgrown leech. The anger that she had embraced and held onto to like a life raft left her along with perhaps some vestige of hope no matter how misplaced, and seemed to drain away at a commensurate rate with her blood. Her skin color took on a sallow look -- anemic, as her head began to bob rhythmically up and down and then fell one final time, forcefully -- her chin striking her chest with a dull thump. Tears could be seen running down her cheeks. Her passing did not cause Sugarman to relinquish his grip as he still clung to her like some monstrous tick.

Her creator was shocked -- well quite surprised -- she was crying. Perhaps she had finally reached the breaking point or had achieved a level of sentience and recognized that this pitiless treatment was all that her life had in store for her. Or perhaps it was nothing more than instinct. It was his experience with other test subjects was that one's imminent demise often brought out the more base emotions. The lines between instinct and acquired or learned behavior were often blurry but that just made his experiments all the more interesting and provided the motivation to take them further. He discovered that his own creativity was often directly proportional to the amount of pain that he was able to inflict on his test subjects. He supposed that certain mental health professionals might categorize him as _disturbed_ or psychopathic, but he couldn't ignore the positive benefits and results that his _brand_ of experimentation resulted in. Although he was disappointed that her healing factor was somehow thwarted by Sugarman's saliva, which possessed some unknown agent that inhibited her ability -- up to this point that is, to recover from practically any wound. Sugarman, the buffoon that he is, was often full of surprises and he would have to study what had transpired in detail at some other time.

One of the mutants casually raised an arm -- or something that was once and arm, and an eruption of energy shot out blowing her torso away from the rest of her body. Her head fell to the ground while portions of her arms and legs remained attached to the adamantium shackles. There was little or no blood. The heat from the blast cauterized the wounds. Charred body parts were all that remained. He did not kill her out of pity. It was more out of irritation or perhaps that he just liked to kill.

Possessing something akin to a sixth sense, Sugarman abruptly stopped feeding and jumped away from the dead mutant just before the destructive beam of bio-energy tore her body apart. Like a cornered rodent he peered out from behind a large piece of lab equipment he had hidden behind and cautiously ventured back to his valuable and tasty _meal_. He greedily began to gather-up her remains, looking over his shoulder to insure another blast was not forthcoming and hastily placed her severed head under one arm and scuttled away into a corner of the lab. There he began to selectively pick and rend small parts of her face off with his razor sharp front teeth -- like tearing at the skin of a peach or a plum to get at the more moist and fleshy parts of the fruit underneath.

_Well, well, that didn't exactly go as planned,_ he thought. An autopsy would have provided him with valuable data, which he could have utilized in future generations of Infinites, but his ill-tempered fellow expatriate had now made that impossible. The click-clack sound of his long talons as he rhythmically tapped the tabletop was the only outward sign of his impatience. Clearly, they were _his_ obsequious underlings -- or they certainly made him believe that they were. He dared not show how he truly felt due to the volatile nature of his present company -- one individual in particular. Yes indeed, he had to be very careful when dealing with one of his current _guests_ -- and if anything, he was a survivor. His continued existence, in a completely different reality no less, was proof of that.

He warily watched as this dangerous individual impatiently paced the room, his huge bulk, due to the containment suit that he himself designed, barely left him enough room to maneuver around the densely packed research equipment scattered about the lab. He was not exactly an ally - nor was he really an enemy - and he was by no means an ordinary mutant. _Holocaust_, purported son of Apocalypse, was an omega mutant of unbelievable power. His unpredictable behavior was fueled by an aberrant hate of all things living. His other guest, who also wasn't quite an ally either, was more of a collaborator by necessity. By comparison between the two, Sugarman wasn't nearly as powerful and much more prone to open panic, but in some ways, was almost as dangerous.

Holocaust just stood there waiting. He glowed like an ingot of molten hot steel. Even the containment suit could not completely keep all of the raging energy subsumed. The outline of his entire _body_ could be seen through the suit almost as if the suit was transparent, which it was not -- except for the faceplate on his astronaut-like helmet. His head appeared as a flaming skull -- roiling, angry energy, which gave him the semblance of a biblical demon from the lowest levels of Hell. Like his supposed father Apocalypse, Holocaust was able to drain the life energies of both humans and mutants' augmenting his own great power -- and it was that power that literally _boiled_ out of the suit.

He decided to break the uncomfortable silence in an attempt to diffuse what he knew would be viewed as his own personal failure. "Well gentlemen, this isn't exactly like old times but your _more_ familiar company is most certainly welcome," the _Dark Beast_ said with as much genuine enthusiasm as he was capable of mustering.

A broad smile spread across his face. Sharp white teeth gleamed brightly reflecting the intense laboratory lights, although there wasn't a degree of warmth associated with the Dark Beast's grin. He was an escapee from a bleak and shadowy reality, an alternate universe where Apocalypse had come to power -- the same place his present company came from -- fellow _refugees_. He had very little in common with _this_ universe's version of Henry McCoy. They looked alike and both possessed a mind of exceptional genius but that is where the similarities stopped -- abruptly. A self-centered and sadistic research scientist who had absolutely no regard for life, human or mutant, the Dark Beast was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands -- and he reveled in it.

"I'm not interested in good company, Beast," Holocaust snapped, his voice sounding eerily mechanical even to McCoy who designed the suit and voice modulator. "You waste time on creating these weak and pathetic creatures as nothing but personal play things. It does nothing to further our cause. We have to wrest control of this planet from the sickening humans who somehow control it. The way to do that is to contact my father -- join with him on his endless and glorious crusade to annihilate the weak, leaving only strong. Together, we will recreate the mutant world we came from, and the humans and mutants who oppose us will be crushed under my father's heel."

"My experiments are all geared towards furthering _our_ cause. To secure our place in this reality, we will need new and better _Infinites_. She was a precursor, the first step in creating a superior Infinite, and an army that will be needed to conquer this universe. And ah yes, who couldn't resist the allure of the pristine paradise we came from?" He paused, his own innate cruelty overshadowing his common sense. "That all ended rather badly and as I recall, your father was killed by Magneto. Who knows what the Apocalypse of this world has done or is doing? He may already have a son or daughter. He is certainly not your father, nor will he take kindly to you..."

Holocaust crossed the room in few short strides and had his one _normal_ hand around McCoy's throat.

He had forgotten how quickly Holocaust could move, even wearing the bulky containment suit. And he had let his cruel sarcasm escape his lips despite being wary of Holocaust's low threshold for any derision. With his feet above dangling above the ground he managed to croak out a few words to explain himself. "I only meant that we do not know how Apocalypse would receive us and we have no way to contact him," he croaked. "Our plan was to stay hidden, to observe and bide our time before we did anything overtly out in the open."

Holocaust threw him to the floor and into a table where an active experiment was in progress. Glass test tubes and other containers that held different fluids fell off the tabletop and onto the floor. Other containers from neighboring tables also crashed to the floor due to the force of the impact, making a huge mess. Sugarman snickered quietly his long tongue darting out like a snake tasting McCoy's discomfort and enjoying it.

"Stay hidden like a sewer rat," he said disgustedly. "That was your plan -- it was never mine. My father cannot be killed in this or any reality and he will welcome us with open arms," Holocaust said, bordering on hysteria. "We have already proven we are fit to survive. That is all he will care about," Holocaust said, his voice trailing off slightly, "nothing more."

McCoy stood; his thick hair was matted in places where some of the spilled liquid had splashed his fur. "What I was attempting to say is that from a strategic perspective it would be more prudent to simply wait, observe and gather more data before we decide exactly how we should proceed. Additional alliances can be secured to insure our success. Despite what you've seen here today, my experiments are progressing..."

"Enough! And how much longer should we wait, coward? You've been doing nothing for..how many years?" Holocaust snapped.

He remained silent because there wasn't an answer that would suit Holocaust. There rarely was. In truth, he had been very busy -- pursuing many things that would certainly further _their_ cause and also further his own selfish interests. Holocaust was unaware of his _affiliation_ of sorts with a most generous benefactor...someone who had approached him years ago and given him incredible scientific knowledge and had asked for nothing in return. _His_ creation of the Moorlocks had been an astounding gift...the knowledge to create brand new mutants from scratch so to speak...of course there had been some _difficulties_ -- interesting side effects, but these were experiments after all. Unforeseeable outcomes and consequences came with the territory. The fact that he was unable to determine the identity of his benefactor was of some concern, and he hadn't heard from him in quite some time --- but there was no denying the benefits he had reaped -- they were invaluable. Holocaust's ranting rudely brought him out of his reverie.

"From this point forward, no experiments will take place without my explicit permission. You will do exactly as I say concerning your _research_ -- and I assure you, your time will be spent in doing only things related to securing our dominance in this universe," Holocaust said, his tone was unyielding and inflexible.

A faint hum and an unexpected flash of light was all that could be heard and seen as two tesseracts opened simultaneously in the lab. Victor Creed stepped out first, a bloodthirsty countenance accompanied by a look of glee was written across his savage features. He was immediately followed by the hulking figure of Blockbuster and the brutish mien of Hairbag, two more of Sinister's henchmen. With no hesitation they fanned out, locking their eyes solely on a single quarry and rushed directly toward Sugarman, their obvious predetermined objective.

There was no delay in Sugarman's reaction, a consummate survivor, he immediately recognized the threat and moved almost instantaneously to avoid his antagonists. He leapt on top of a table in an attempt to prevent a head-on collision with Sabertooth who was the closest individual trying to get at him. Both of Sabertooth's cohorts quickly moved to either side of the table to obstruct Sugarman from using the other tables as stepping stones and were in strategic positions on the tiled floor prevent this. Unfortunately for Sugarman, Sabertooth anticipated his _escape route_ and darted right under Sugarman, as he was in mid-leap. Without even a glance above his head, and like a pendulum attached to a fixed point, Sabertooth carved a perfect semi-circular arc through the air with his arm and hand, instinctively finding his mark. Sabertooth's claws raked across and in between Sugarman's legs and latched onto what was there and tore away a bloody and pulpy mass. Sugar_man_ screamed in agony confirming, if it was ever in doubt, that he was indeed a male. His head caught the edge of one of the lab benches, which splintered into pieces and Sugarman rolled off and onto the floor.

"Sorry for the low-blow egg-head," Creed laughed as he licked his hand clean of the blood, "but you gotta be careful what body parts are hangin' low 'specially when you let ole Sabertooth get ahold of 'em. Anyways, I get the impression there ain't no _Mrs. Sugar Man_, so nobody is gonna be disappointed," he said with a maniacal grin.

Despite the grievous injury and massive blood loss, Sugarman had no trouble collecting his wits and all four of his arms as well as his legs were immediately positioned under his body to allow him to vault to a different location. But just as he was as about to spring to his feet, Blockbuster's full weight landed on his exposed back and knocked all of the air from his bulbous carcass. Blockbuster locked his legs around the ovoid body, securing himself in place and began pummeling the top of Sugarman's skull with massive blows with his ham hock sized fists until his head cracked open with a sickening sound. There was a heavy exhalation of air as Sugarman's body went limp and lost consciousness.

At first, there was no movement from Sugarman's body. He appeared to have stopped breathing and was dead. After a few more seconds, two small hands popped out of the seemingly mortal wound and grabbed each side of the fissure, and seemed to be trying to enlarge the opening. A smaller version of Sugarman, approximately one-quarter the size of his original body thrust its way out into the open air covered in blood and a green colored ichor, and despite his appearance was now injury free.

Prepared and having been briefed by Sinister himself about Sugarman's unique brand of mutation, Hairbag lunged forward and before the _half-pint_ version Sugarman could completely free himself, Hairbag expelled a toxic green-colored gas from his mouth directly into Sugarman's face.

Sugarman gagged once and fell from his former body and immediately regurgitated the contents of his stomach, which included partial limbs, bile, and an extremely corrosive stomach acid right into Hairbag's face and eyes. Projectile vomiting of a corrosive stomach acid wasn't your most typical mutant power. Sinister either hadn't known or more likely just had decided not to tell Hairbag about this other feature to Sugarman's mutant power.

Hairbag reared back grabbed his face and screamed, wisps of smoke surrounded his head as hair and skin were turned into a thick gray pudding and fell off onto the ground in large clumps. By touching his face, his hands were now also encircled by curls of vapor, as he staggered with his hands outstretched as if to ward off phantoms. All his facial features disintegrated leaving a stark and barren skull that resembled a child's Halloween mask. Almost immediately, even the bones Hairbag's skull began to smolder, the progression of the acid seemed unstoppable. Sugarman's stomach acid was so corrosive that Hairbag would be dead in another twenty seconds, as it would shortly reach dissolve his brain.

Once again, a smaller version of Sugarman emerged, this time from the stomach area and covered in a thick yellow and red tinged mucous, tearing its way free by eating the surrounding tissue of his former body. It was a unique form of cannibalism. Like an ant, Sugarman's small legs moved like a blur as he scurried onto and across the floor to distance himself from his former body and those trying to kill him.

Despite what Sinister had told him, Blockbuster couldn't believe what he was seeing. Having Sugarman's abilities described and actually seeing them first hand were two different things. Even in a world with no shortage of strange mutant powers, Sugarman and his many _lives_ and how he maintained them were quite a novelty. Unfortunately, his hesitation resulted in him being a second too slow as he leapt off of Sugarman's now inert and former body and brought his fist down where Sugarman had just been. The ground shook as his fist cracked the tile and cement floor but the effort was nothing more than a waste of energy.

"Do I have to do everything you dumb assholes," Sabertooth said, annoyed that Sugarman wasn't dead yet. Although after he had done his part, he had just been idly watching and laughing as one of his _comrades_ had been disfigured, blinded, and possibly killed. He had also just watched and laughed hysterically doing nothing while Blockbuster lumbered about, slow and clumsy unable to secure their quarry. He jumped over two tables in a single leap landing with catlike grace for someone of his size. He was now positioned right in front of Sugarman, temporarily blocking his path.

Sugarman was too quick and immediately altered his course. Like a mouse, his diminutive size allowed him to corner sharply and Sabertooth's claws raked right over his head just missing his mark.

"Hungry, gotta eat, gotta get big and strong -- hungry, gotta eat, gotta get big and strong," Sugarman kept repeating like a mantra over and over. He launched himself head first right into a floor level heating duct and squeezed through the vent grate landing on his head. In one fluid motion not missing a beat, he rolled to his feet and ran down the duct safe from Victor Creed's murderous fury.

Sabertooth landed on his stomach a second too late. His hand and claws latched onto the metal duct grate and tore it off the wall. He threw it across the room hoping to hit one of his _teammates_. "Shit," he screamed as he peered down the length of the duct and caught a glimpse of Sugarman as he tore around a bend in the ductwork and out of sight. _Sinister's not gonna be too happy about this,_ he thought. He'd just blame the rest of his team -- and hoped that Sinister had not been watching.

* * *

Slab and Arclight emerged from the second tesseract and were immediately followed by Vertigo. The diminutive mutant, whose powers did not include any type of invulnerability and could be as easily hurt as any human being, was using her teammate's huge bodies for cover and protection. Their target could prove to be a quite difficult and Vertigo was the key -- the key to buy them some time. 

Sinister had explained on more than one occasion that understanding how one's individual mutant power worked expanded their application. He had told Vertigo that her powers worked on two levels. She could telekinetically cause inflammation of the vestibular nerves, cause irritation of tiny structures such as microscopic hair cells, which project into fluid-filled canals, called labyrinths, within the vestibular system located deep in the inner ear. He had described in detail how normal balance is, to a degree, controlled by movement of fluid and particles in the labyrinths, in response to changes of body position. This causes the hair cells to send electrical impulses to the brain helping to define the body's orientation. He instructed her on how she could induce irritation and inflammation in the hair cells and other structures in the labyrinths. They discharge randomly, sending chaotic messages to the brain, tricking the brain into thinking you or your surroundings are moving or spinning.

But creatures like Holocaust no longer had a physical body, not in any traditional sense. He had lost that long ago in another universe after a terrific battle with Magneto. But even after having his body torn apart at an atomic level, Holocaust was so powerful that he was able to reconstitute himself and survive -- in a fashion. What was left was his core essence -- malevolent energy. The Dark Beast was tasked by Apocalypse himself to design a containment suit, in order to keep what was left of Holocaust coherent and tangible. Fortunately for the Dark Beast, he had been successful and the suit worked exactly as Apocalypse had prescribed. Although over time, the Dark Beast had often regretted his _success_ but had wisely kept that to himself.

Sinister had taught her that she could cause the same effects in disembodied beings like Holocaust who possessed no inner ear by doing it psionically. She could induce the same feelings of disorientation and malaise, sometimes even more intensively, psionically.

So armed with this knowledge, she began her attack immediately after exiting the tesseract, concentrating the totality of her power in a focused beam directly at Holocaust. Normally, even a few seconds of exposure to her mutant ability would be all that was required to effectively immobilize most any mutant. Her targets would immediately become disoriented and most times vomit uncontrollably. The result would be that they could not stand and would soon find themselves writhing on the floor soaked in a variety of bodily fluids. This time, following Sinister's instructions to the letter, she didn't stop but maintained a continuous and sustained level of attack, persevering even though the pain in her head grew in step with the length of her assault on Holocaust.

Holocaust watched unconcerned as the tesseracts formed and calmly observed the mutants who stepped out and into the laboratory. It was quite apparent that these mutants were not here by invitation and brought with them a hostile intent. He didn't feel threatened at all, confident in his great power to kill anyone who dared to oppose him. He was actually quite pleased. Killing the helpless test subject was hardly a challenge and had not come close to sating his unquenchable thirst for violence and murder. Sugarman's feeding frenzy had only increased his desire to kill something with his own _two_ hands. He would relish butchering these hapless fools.

But almost immediately after first seeing the mutants exit the tesseracts, an intense feeling of malaise swept over him. He no longer felt he could keep his balance and felt himself fall to the floor as the room spun about him. He was stupefied at how he was rendered helpless having never experienced this feeling, but lacked the lucidity to alter his condition. A cloud of insensibility settled over him and he found it difficult to access his thoughts and powers. He made several half-hearted attempts to stand, but his concentration was too diffuse and it only exacerbated the sick feeling that overwhelmed all of his other senses. Through his stupor he could barely make out the faces of the two mutants who had come from the tesseracts and now suddenly appeared to be hovering over him.

Slab and Arclight quickly made their way over to Holocaust as he fell to the floor. Vertigo had done her part -- immobilizing the powerful mutant just as Sinister said she would. Employing his mutant power, Slab's height and weight increased at an incredible rate, his head scraped the ceiling -- paint and sheetrock chips fell to the floor. He also left footprints in the tile floor and now must have must have weighed close to three tons. Slab smiled wickedly, and stood over the armored mutant, watching as he made feeble attempts to stand and regain his balance. He raised an enormous spear and without a word or seconds hesitation, drove it into Holocaust's chest piercing the containment suit. Slab didn't let go and gleefully twisted and turned the imbedded weapon enlarging the opening as energy began to pour out of the _wound._

At the same time, Arclight raised the one ton adamantium mace and brought it down with ferocious force on Holocaust's faceplate. After only two blows, the faceplate shattered, but Arclight continued in an insane frenzy, leveling blow after blow pulverizing Holocaust's entire headpiece.

Holocaust felt his integrity slipping, which intruded on his stupor. With the suit, it didn't require any concentration to keep himself intact -- that was the suits primary function. Without it, over time he would eventually disipate. It would be like pouring a bucket of water into the ocean, and then come back in a week and try to find all of the orignal water molecules that were in the bucket. Even for a short period of time, it required a sizable amount of effort to keep himself whole and undiminished. The veil of fog thinned and Holocaust's thought process began to clear somewhat and become a little less murky. He could vaguely make out the mutants who stood above him but knew what they were trying to do. A second of clarity allowed him to latch onto his rage, and with that he reached up and grabbed the shaft of the spear with his hand. Through it, he could feel the mutant who was wielding it, and reached for his essence -- violently.

Slab saw that the supposedly powerful mutant was unable to offer up any defense and he and Arclight were zealously beating him to death. His observation only increased his enjoyment and redoubled his enthusiasm. He could also see that Arclight had succumbed to the _feeding frenzy_ and had given herself completely over -- immersing her body and soul into the inspired violence. Slab suddenly felt as if something had grabbed his heart and was aware of a steady weakening of his great strength. He also became aware of the fact that he appeared to be moving closer to the mutant they were murdering but was in reality, steadily shrinking. He tried to let go of the spear but could not -- it was as if his hands were welded to the spear and now he was too weak to even open his hand to let go. He felt his consciousness slipping away but not before he felt his own face collapse in on itself. He finally was able to let go of the spear but not by his own volition. He simply fell away, an empty sack of skin -- a dried out husk, his body ransacked and ravaged of every ounce of life energy.

Absorbing Slab's energy, Holocaust's thoughts partially cleared -- enough for him to block the next blow from the crazed woman attacking him. He then tore the mace from her hand, and shakily stood, the spear still protruding from his chest.

Weaponless, Arclight became even more enraged not noticing or caring what had happened to Slab, and leapt at Holocaust intending to use her teeth and nails to dismember what remained of him and his suit. She was met with a literal _stiff arm_ -- a perforated club that was part of Holocaust's containment suit, designed by the Dark Beast himself to deliver the incredibly powerful and destructive bio-energy in copious and concentrated quantities. He struck her with such physical force that it penetrated her chest and she was impaled by the strange appendage.

Holocaust lifted her off the ground as easy as if she was a marshmallow skewered on a stick. Blood droplets were dripping down her chin, and then began to flow like a scarlet river as each second passed. Arclight eyes opened wide as she gulped for air that would not come and then began to twitch uncontrollably. "I don't know you and you obviously don't know me or you wouldn't be here. And I wish I had more time because I'd find out who sent you and why -- and make your last moments the most terrifying in your pitiful life." Holocaust triggered the release of bio-energy that tore through her insides and she simply exploded. Her body parts and blood flew around the lab and painted the walls, floor, and equipment with viscera and gore.

His vertigo was greatly diminished but vestiges of it still remained -- and had the feeling that it was very slowly building once again. He had already acclimated. Whatever had felled him before -- would never again. He had assumed that with the death of the two mutants it would have ceased completely -- one of them being the source. He concluded that another mutant must be responsible. Even through the surrounding melee, he quickly was able to locate and identify source of his earlier problem. A small woman was crouched behind some shattered lab equipment, white-faced and trembling. He quickly strode over to where she was and threw aside her pitiful cover and grabbed her by the top of her head and lifted her off the ground. He immediately felt every last trace of dizziness leave him.

Vertigo was frozen with terror. She could not even summon an iota of her power -- what good she thought it would do now. Because of her proximity to Holocaust, she felt as if ants were crawling over every inch of her body. The energy that was no longer completely contained by the suit radiated out in every direction. His head was like a raging fire as flames rolled and subsided, grew and shrunk -- a never ceasing cauldron of energy. She moaned in terror and in pain, the vise grip on her head felt as if her skull would be crushed any second.

"How could a mewling bitch like you bring me to my knees?" Holocaust raged. "I'm going to crush your head like an overripe melon and feed your remains to Sugarman." He stopped speaking to Vertigo abruptly, his attention elsewhere. Just out of the corner of his sight, he could not believe who he saw.

Mr. Sinister stood in front of one of his infernal tesseracts. He caught just a glimpse of Sinister, who had obviously had been here for the necessary amount of time as threw the Dark Beast into the _doorway._ He immediately understood that the Dark Beast's capture was the goal of this attack, and the assault on him was no more than a simple distraction -- which infuriated him to no end. "Sinister you traitorous bastard. As I suspected, in any reality you are a weak and treacherous coward. I told my father you were not fit to be a Horseman." Vertigo's head exploded when Holocausts hand closed in a fit of anger after seeing Sinister. He was completely unaware of this fact as her body hit the floor.

Sinister turned and smiled. "Succumbing to a small woman? Your father would not be proud -- weakling." Sinister added and then stepped into the tesseract, never seeing or hearing Holocaust's wild and repeated blasts of bio-energy or the destruction and collapse of the lab around him.

* * *

The Dark Beast immediately recognized the two materializing tesseracts and with that, came the more terrifying realization of whom they belonged to. Despite all his precautions, all the secrecy, all the murders to cover his tracks, he had been found. Sinister had discovered where he was and had finally come for an _unannounced_ visit. 

The third tesseract appeared no more than ten feet away and without a doubt contained the lord and master of this ensanguined operation. While the Dark Beast's compatriots were otherwise occupied, the preminent scientist of his former universe and most likely this one, stepped into his lab unnoticed, resplendent in appearance -- glorious and imposing in his majesty. All of his plebians performed like trained circus animals -- carrying out all the unpleasant and tedious tasks that Sinister himself would never sully his hands with. It was now quite obvious that Sinister's rabble and their actions were meant to be nothing more than a diversionary -- a disorienting chaos by design that the gerent genetisist had planned with scrupulous forethought.

Sinister looked around him disdainfully. "I know I came without an invitation or even a cake, but you could have at least tidied up a bit."

The Dark Beast tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible and slowly reached into a pocket of his lab coat. His fear of Sinister was beyond compare and bordered on obsession. He couldn't keep his hand from shaking as he pulled out an unusual looking device that was no doubt a weapon. But before he could point it at his intended target, it was torn out of his hand by a simple gesture from Sinister.

"That's not quite the welcome I was expecting," Sinister said sounding hurt. "Aren't we two men of science? Let us not let this degrade into a simple barroom brawl." He gestured about him. "That is for the more pedestrian individuals of our kind, is it not?"

Amongst all of the blood, carnage, and violence that surrounded them, Sinister's civil pretense was so out of place -- but was so much a part of the dichotomy that was Sinister, that in a strange way it was normal.

He hastily tried to bargain with Sinister all the while knowing that it would be useless. It was a feeble attempt at stalling for time -- to think of some options, but even his great mind was completely frozen with terror by Sinister's sudden and unexpected presence. "I was once a loyal _colleague_ of your _alternate_ self. We achieved great things together. I can't see why some mutual arrangement, shared research, a cooperative effort..." the Dark Beast stammered.

Sinister just responded with a cold indulgent smile.

Mr. Sinister in any reality worked for or with no one. The Dark Beast knew this better than anyone, and utter panic settled into his bones and was clearly discernable in his eyes and movements. He took a tentative step in the opposite direction of Sinister and towards a bookcase over on a far wall.

Sinister's eyebrow arched. "If I were you and spent a great deal of time and resources in trying to avoid me, I would have taken precautions for at least _one_ emergency escape route. A hidden panel behind a bookcase? How bourgeois and bromidic," Sinister said in a chastising tone.

The Dark Beast froze but was weighing his options, which were quite simply fight or flight.

Sinister recognized the look in his eyes, and smiled once again. "You are on the precipice of a very important and critical decision." Sinister's tone was reasonable -- almost conciliatory. "We don't need a performance of great éclat. I'm sure my doppelganger from your reality wasn't very different from the person that stands before you now. I am also quite certain that we both know that there are consequences and repercussions for actions that he and I would deem unsuitable. I have a great level of confidence that my alternate left an indelible impression on your impressive mind and you have already experienced _my_ variety of punishment for unsatisfactory behavior." Sinister's eyes narrowed and his tone changed ever-so slightly but conveyed an impending menace nonetheless. "Let me enlighten you to the fact that you have already earned my ire and will be disciplined accordingly. You will come with me now -- willingly. Any resistance will dictate the severity..." Sinister paused and smiled. "It's all up to you -- _Henry."_

He would not -- could not once again be Sinister's slave. The Dark Beast swallowed once and bolted for the bookcase bounding and leaping in a zigzag pattern. Sinister shook his head as if disappointed and raised his arm. A bolt of crimson energy discharged from of his hand and knocked the Dark Beast into the bookcase. He hit the floor hard; a number of heavy volumes fell from the shelves onto his head. He was oblivious to that fact because he was rendered unconscious by Sinister's blow before he hit the bookcase.

Sinister reopened the tesseract, grabbed the Dark Beast by the scruff of his neck hair and threw him unceremoniously into the white light. He stopped and turned smiling maliciously in Holocaust's direction to respond something he had had just yelled across the large laboratory. He said a few short words and without a glance back to the fate of his _comrades_ stepped into the tesseract.

* * *

_Interlude 2 - Plainview, NY_

Aron sat in the atrium, just as he did everyday, bathing his body in the bright sunlight as well as all of the rest of the unseen ambient energy suffusing his being with the power that would restore him -- the power he so desperately craved. The humans around him had no idea why he sat there for hours on end, wanting nothing to do with them. Using this power as well as his mind and essence, cell by cell, molecule by molecule, he had painstakingly converted this frail human body into a much more resilient and powerful form -- capable of housing his great power. His appearance of course remained the same. He still looked like the decrepit old human named Mr. Guerin...the body he had absconded some time ago.

It was imperative that his return to his former might and glory be accomplished ever-so gradually and surreptitiously. Who better than a Watcher could possibly avoid detection from the hypersensitive perceptions of another Watcher? Should there be a sudden spike in cosmic energy on Earth -- Uatu would immediately become aware of his presence and without delay would move against him as well as alert _his_ fellow Watchers that Aron was alive and well.

_The hypocrites,_ he thought. The sole time they acted in concert was to murder him. Their philosophy if one could even call it that was one of apathy, bereft of any passion. They could never be moved to any action -- his entire race was hopelessly phlegmatic. He had hoped that others would follow his example, to bring an end to countless millennia of stagnation. He would be the match that would start a conflagration, something to end their eon's long decline, to shake them out their self-induced dormancy. He would have been hailed as the savior of his race, revered -- through war and conquest he would establish the Watcher's dominance in this and all realities. But instead they were envious of his distinction, they were resentful of his greatness, wary of his brilliance and ambition, and for that --- he would kill them all.

He would also kill all the savages of this primitive planet for their complicity in his incarceration. He had given that mutant _Beast_, who believed he was a scientist the means to exterminate the entire race. Of course the fool had no idea what he was given, and by Aron's standards, he was not a scientist. In comparison to him, the mutant filth was as evolved as common bacteria. Under the guise of educating this Beast about creating more of his _kind,_ the mutating proteins that were present in these _new_ mutants, were the precursor to a virus that should have eradicated almost every living thing on this planet and led to humanities extinction -- somehow failed. It had vexed Aron to the point of madness -- there was absolutely no way it should have failed -- and yet the animals were still here in abundance.

Aron slammed his fist down on the side of his wheelchair. It brought little or no attention to him as those around him, both residents and staff were quite used to his outbursts of anger. _Who or what could have thwarted his plans,_ he thought? Who had the power on this backwater planet to not only stop him but to keep his presence concealed -- from two Watchers no less? Only someone with greater power than his own -- which was categorically impossible. He squeezed the padded armrests of his chair bending and leaving finger impressions in the metal as if it were putty. Once he regained his power he would find out who this powerful adversary was -- kill him and claim all that power as his own. He would also not forget anyone who had wronged him -- no one would be spared. He would kill everyone and everything that had gotten in his way.

He glanced up to see that Alexandra was heading in his direction -- smiling. His mood lightened. The only pleasant distraction in this dismal facility. Perhaps she would appreciate hearing about some of his plans.

* * *

_The Swiss Alps_

The invisible wind whipped and swirled but carried enough snow to reveal its covert passage between and through the myriad of cliffs, crags, and peaks of the great mountain range. At about eight-thousand feet, almost impossible to reach by any conventional means, a dark pillar of stone scarcely noticeable because of the huge snow drifts covering most of it, but perceptible because of the contrast of color against the virgin white snow, marked the entrance to _Exodus'_ lair.

Centuries ago, a young and bold adventurer named Bennet du Paris embarked on a quest to find an ancient tower that was rumored to be home of untold riches and power. Joining him on this quest was another Crusader Knight, Eobar Garrington, also known as the Black Knight. Unfortunately for Du Paris, his quest and destiny led him to Akkaba, birthplace of the Eternal Pharaoh, better known as the immortal mutant Apocalypse. Their meeting was completely orchestrated by Apocalypse -- its purpose was to test and trigger a power Du Paris suspected resided in him. It was through this _test,_ centuries ago, that the mutant Exodus was born.

Exodus, in his arrogance, believed that he had become a god and that he had no master, and turned against Apocalypse with this newfound power. He immediately discovered that he was no match for the mutant tyrant, and as punishment for his rebellion, Apocalypse entombed him in this remote structure deep within a mountain in the Swiss Alps. There he placed him in a deep slumber -- one in which he would not awaken from for many centuries.

With no more than a stray thought, the husks of twenty bodies were lifted, lit on fire and thrown outside of the cave entrance. There they would join the thousands of other bodies littered along the mountainside. Over time, they would slide down the steep slopes, get covered and uncovered by the melting snow and eventually decompose and become part of mountain soil itself. After Exodus had drained all of their life-force, burned them with his mutant powers, there really wasn't much left. He would take them from the various local villages that surrounded the mountain -- some were missed, some were not, it was of little concern to Exodus. Over the years the disappearances had caused all sorts of stories and myths to be told and formed and he had become somewhat of a local legend. But most of it was based on very little truth -- other than the fact that all the people were dead. Like only the most powerful of mutants, he was able to drain the life essence from individual bodies, and take that energy as his own. In this fashion, he was able to augment his own innate mutant power. His next set of endeavors would require him to be as powerful as he possibly could be -- and that would require more _cattle._

He felt the hairs on his neck rise. Someone was in the room with him. He wasn't sure whether he was more disturbed because he first became aware of the fact that he was not alone because of a very primal form of human instinct, and not his great psionic powers -- or for the fact that for first time in centuries he felt genuine fear.

He turned towards the cavern entrance; a large and terrifying silhouette blocked almost all the sunlight from entering. Exodus could not make out any of the facial details of his _visitor,_ but because of the shape and size -- there could be no mistaking who this was.

"Come now Bennet, I think I've allowed you to indulge in personal pursuits for a fair amount of time. Isn't several centuries of freedom sufficient?" Apocalypse asked in a reasonable tone. "I think it's time to put your substantial talents to good use -- my use." The impossibly deep baritone resonated off the cave walls and even though it was centuries ago, brought back the feelings of trepidation and dread that only Apocalypse could provoke.

After all these centuries -- all his public displays of power, his affiliation with Magneto and his Acolytes -- why now? Why after all this time, did Apocalypse decide to come here, where he had first imprisoned him? The answer filled him with dread. Finding courage Exodus managed to sound confident and snapped back, "I do not require your permission for something that is my basic right."

"Did Magnus allow you any _basic rights?_ You are a follower Bennet -- that is your _basic nature._ You are not at fault. Think of it as something genetic -- something innate in your case," Apocalypse laughed mockingly. "This isn't any different, you're just returning to your original sovereign."

Exodus balled his fists and his eyes narrowed at Apocalypse's obvious insults. "Perhaps I do not desire to be anyone's lackey -- yours or Magneto's. My powers have grown tyrant. I am no longer a novice and my control of my abilities is a far cry from what it once was. I assure you, things will be quite different this time."

He had thought about this many times -- that he might encounter Apocalypse again and he had made a conscious decision to fight long ago if he found himself under these very same circumstances. But he was smart enough to realize the consequences of this course and the dwindling courage that was now escaping him like air from a punctured balloon, with the huge frame actually standing before him.

"I see," Apocalypse laughed. "I suppose I should be intimidated, but for some reason Bennet -- I am not." Apocalypse's tone changed from an almost friendly banter to one of impending menace. "I understand your apprehension but surely you are not asking for _another_ demonstration of my power?" Apocalypse stepped forward threateningly, his shadow looming over Exodus. "After all, it has only been a few centuries. I would have thought that the impression I made -- would have been a lasting one."

His arms hung at his side with a casualness that was at odds with what was about to transpire. His hands began to swell as if two high-pressure fire hoses were implanted in his wrists and were in the process of pumping the entire contents of a large lake into his hands. They continued to enlarge growing to the size and shape of the stones at the base of the ancient pyramids of Egypt -- but were harder than any rock or stone. Apocalypse seemed to be deliberately proceeding a leisurely pace. It could be that he was intentionally trying to unnerve Exodus or perhaps even giving him a chance to reconsider his choice. If Apocalypse's cold smile was an indication of anything, he seemed to be enjoying Exodus' dilemma.

"Power for the sake of power. Dominance for the sake of dominance. The aphrodisiac of power -- it is addictive like no other substance. Once you've drunken from that cup, it is impossible to ever put it down again. Tell me Bennet; after all these years, have you come to appreciate the use of power, to demonstrate to others your superiority, to feel their abject fear, to know that their lives are yours to end with no more than a thought? I've watched you Bennet and I believe that you do. Then just imagine how I must feel when even the most powerful amongst you -- fear the very whisper of my name." Apocalypse began to laugh wildly, which sounded like the roaring of a hurricane as he raised his enormous fists, crossed his arms in front of him and than suddenly lashed out, his limbs lengthening until they struck either side of the cavern walls.

The explosion of sound and rock fragments was both deafening and blinding. Massive slabs of rock fell from the cavern ceiling and tons of debris began to seal the entrance as the entire structure began to collapse. Exodus erected a shield the second he saw what Apocalypse had intended. Colossal boulders struck his shield with mammoth force and it took all of his concentration to maintain his shield's integrity and levitate out of the cavern entrance -- or what was left of it. During his escape, his eyes never left Apocalypse and watched as huge chunks of rock rained down on the immortal mutant striking him repeatedly with no effect whatsoever. He just stood there, his insane laughter heard even over the collapse of his former home.

Exodus managed to escape the collapse and levitated just outside his former _home's_ entrance praying that Apocalypse had been either trapped or killed. He knew almost instantly what a foolish notion that had been.

The pile of rock exploded outward as deadly rock projectiles shot out in all directions as the huge form of Apocalypse burst from the collapsed entrance. Like a vengeful god from the underworld Apocalypse emerged from the earth, dwarfing everything around him. He was no longer of _normal_ size but was a giant at least thirty feet tall. Exodus who had never dropped his shield, immediately strengthened it and before he could move away, Apocalypse in two long strides reached him and put his enormous hands around and completely engulfed Exodus.

Like a child holding a balloon in both hands and testing its resiliency, Apocalypse began to squeeze -- the shield began to flicker, shrinking slowly in size because of the enormous compressive forces that Apocalypse was applying. Exodus could not believe the incredible pressure Apocalypse was generating around his shield. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and a massive pressure began to build in his head as he could feel the walls of his shield begin to give way against Apocalypse's relentless assault.

"Impudent gnat," Apocalypse roared, his voice louder and deeper than before. He had used those very same words centuries ago when Exodus had first exhibited his mutant power and turned them against Apocalypse -- and failed.

Exodus once again tapped into some unknown reserve and strengthened his protective shield even further. But somehow Apocalypse matched and exceeded his effort. He could feel the pressure slowly and inexorably climb. He screamed and felt like the blade of a machete was slowly slicing into his brain dividing it into two separate pieces. Ignoring the pain, he poured all of his mutant energies into maintaining the shield so that he would not be crushed and simultaneously launched a vicious telepathic assault against Apocalypse to stop from being pulverized. Through the haze of blazing energy he could see that his efforts were having no effect whatsoever on Apocalypse. Like a small boy examining an insect he had caught and trapped in a glass jar, Apocalypse brought Exodus closer to his own face. Exodus could not stop the trembling loathing from shaking his body and felt dwarfed as if his entire universe, every sensory input was now filled with nothing but the repulsive and cruel visage of Apocalypse. His last images were of the grim countenance and those merciless eyes -- the face and eyes of his former master boring into his own before everything went black.

When he woke up he was lying on his back in the snow, wet and cold -- truly feeling the outside elements -- an experience he hadn't had in centuries. He could see the puffs of his own breath and tasted the frigid thinness of the high altitude atmosphere as his lungs labored to take in air. His head felt as if it had been split open with an axe, which was still buried in his skull. The sick ache was both in his head and in his stomach and he had trouble telling the difference between the two. He was also aware that he could not access his power -- it was like reaching for and flipping on a light switch after the bulb had burned up. He had literally fried out all the circuitry with his effort to -- Apocalypse...where was he? He tried to sit up and felt his head swim with pain and then the feeling in his stomach overwhelmed the pain in his head and he threw-up a hot steaming mess into the pristine white snow.

He was jerked up and lifted off his feet like he was no more than a thin scrap of paper. Apocalypse, who had returned to the size of eight feet tall, had a painful grip on his upper arm and had him suspended off the ground on the edge of an eroded pass overlooking a vast rock canyon. His face was gray as his legs dangled freely in the open air. Primal fear infused his being as the helplessness and the imminent fall that would now, most certainly kill him overwhelmed his entire consciousness.

"Perhaps I've been too lenient." Apocalypse's booming voice was amplified further still by the echoes bouncing off the rock valley walls. "Do you wish to forfeit your life and all the power that you have amassed?" Apocalypse shook his head unable to comprehend Exodus' actions -- and then seemed to change his mind. I've decided to withdraw my offer that you simply serve me. Now you must show me that you are worthy to be _permitted_ to serve me.

Exodus began to laugh. His death was most certainly assured and that had suddenly provided him with the courage he so recently lacked. "Wouldn't my blind acceptance of servitude after centuries of my own freedom, categorize me as weak. I've subjugating others solely because of my power and greater strength...isn't that what've you preached for centuries? Should I have just laid down like a dog instead of letting personal conflict decide which of us is stronger? You and your philosophy are inconsistent."

Although Apocalypse's booming laughter in response to what he had just said raised the hairs on the back of his neck, Exodus could tell that Apocalypse was genuinely amused and pleased.

"My philosophy is not as simplistic as some make it out to be -- nor is it inconsistent to those capable of truly understanding it. Survival is something else I _preach._ Your powers can be stripped like the peal of a banana, while mine cannot. This is distinct liability for mutants who possess great power but in the end should their powers fail them -- have only a very human body with all its vulnerabilities." His hand formed into a wicked scimitar. His mood suddenly changed from one of mild amusement to one of murderous fury. "I will mount your head on a pike at the entrance to my Tibetan citadel and feed your body to the scavengers. Do you think the example you set today will teach your fellow mutants how futile it is to oppose me, or will other heads need to join yours and decorate the mountainside? Please Bennett, before you die, be of some use to me, after all you've been one of my worst servants in a long line of poor performers. He put the blade's edge against his throat and saw no fear in Exodus' eyes.

"You surprise me Bennet -- and in one as long lived as me, surprise is a rare thing and sometimes pleasing. Do you wish to live?" Apocalypse asked bluntly.

"Yes," Exodus answered without hesitation.

The bladed hand disappeared and morphed back into Apocalypse's familiar gloved hand. He put Exodus back onto the ground and then placed his hand on Exodus' shoulder. The gesture was one of domination --- certainly not one of affection. He looked down at Exodus and simply said, "Do not disappoint me Bennet." A flash of light and they were both in a different location.

Exodus found himself standing in front of a man who had been obviously incarcerated by Apocalypse. The man was trapped in some kind of containment field -- battered and broken, and quite possibly dead. Apocalypse did not tolerate any disobedience and his punishments were creative and quite severe. He could only guess at the _perceived_ affront and how long this man had been punished for. In short order, Apocalypse answered his questions.

"The mutant in front of you is the Shadow King. I'm sure that you've heard of him. There were some distinct weaknesses he possessed that I can not tolerate from someone in my employ. It was necessary to purge characteristics that I deemed would hamper his performance." Apocalypse smiled, and Exodus found himself wishing that Apocalypse had dropped him into that canyon. "I had to convince him using some rather harsh means that it would be in his best interests to do my bidding. I've decided that you two will work together. Get to know one another's strengths and weaknesses."

With a gesture from Apocalypse, the energy field disappeared and the man crumpled to the floor. Apocalypse walked out of the enormous room through two doors that were at least three-hundred feet tall. The doors opened at Apocalypse's approach -- without a sound. "It is your responsibility to see that he lives," Apocalypse said, his booming command heard easily over his shoulders. "There are devices that I will provide -- that will help with his recovery. In the interim, clean him up and attend to his needs. The Shadow King and Exodus will be partners for the foreseeable future."

The doors closed behind Apocalypse, again, without a sound. Exodus was alone -- with the Shadow King? This man before him was one of the most feared and powerful mutants on the planet? Blood seemed to be seeping out of every pore and orifice in his body. He hadn't even moved and Exodus wasn't sure if he had seen him breath. He walked over to him, knelt and touched his skin, which was clammy, cold and a pasty white color. His eyes were wide open, and exuded pure terror -- but saw nothing that was occurring now. Exodus stood and shuddered realizing that had been delivered into hell, and this was going to be his permanent home for as long as Apocalypse desired it to be.

* * *

Apocalypse withdrew into the privacy of his control room. What an interesting pair Exodus and the Shadow King would make. Two very powerful mutants, both with very powerful personalities and great ambitions. Their interactions would no doubt be amusing. He wondered if one would eventually dominate the other or even after all his threats, it would be impossible for them to work together. It did not matter in the slightest; he actually had no use for them at all. It was purely on a whim that he decided to _obtain_ Exodus once again. It would appear to Sinister, Magneto and Xavier that he was gathering his own combatants to counter the mutant army that was being assembled to kill him. Let them believe what they wanted -- it was completely irrelevant. 

Apocalypse activated a view-screen and began to pour over data that had been compiled by Celestial machines used to clandestinely observe other races. His _eternal_ vigilance and the reason behind it was something that Sinister, Magneto and Xavier could never possibly suspect. They had no conception of the magnitude and constant danger this planet faced -- why or from whom. But no machines, even those of Celestial origin could detect that other eyes were watching -- and it was those eyes that he was concerned about -- _eyes_ that he was warned occasionally turned in his direction -- to observe him. In reality, this great being had no eyes in any traditional sense, but was everywhere and everything all at once. It was _His_ notice that Apocalypse was extremely wary of -- and for that reason and that reason alone his behavior and actions had to appear -- well _apocalyptic -- bent on nothing but arbitrary destruction_, he thought and laughed out loud.

The Earth and all its inhabitants both human and mutant -- their survival depended on _him -- Apocalypse,_ his successful ruse. He laughed again and over the thousands of years he had laughed often about the irony of the whole situation -- most definitely perpetuating the impression that he was indeed insane -- which perhaps on further reflection, he was. His laughter filled the huge room as Apocalypse continued his millennia long charade.

* * *

**References;**

1 The Black Knight: Exodus


End file.
